"sprigged" poems
When I am old, and comforted,
And done with this desire,
With Memory to share my bed
And Peace to share my fire,
I'll comb my hair in scalloped bands
Beneath my laundered cap,
And watch my cool and fragile hands
Lie light upon my lap.
And I will have a sprigged gown
With lace to kiss my throat;
I'll draw my curtain to the town,
And hum a purring note.
And I'll forget the way of tears,
And rock, and stir my tea.
But oh, I wish those blessed years
Were further than they be!
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She steps from her bed
Pin-tucked sprigged and lacy.
Piling her hair aloft she moves outside-
Bare-foots along the path
Through the evergreen trees.
Knowing she has a chance to cool her marrow
She approaches the koi filled pool
Listening to water entering water.
She pauses.
Her marrow has been burning
For so many years.
Now she needs it cooler.
As she enters ankle deep
Her lips hiss her heat away.
The blanket **** greens her and the rain
Spits and spatters on her sprigs and lace.
As she tumbles her hair
She stands stock still among darting goldness
As a generation of heat leaves her to her new cold will.
Yet still there burns a sun inside her sudden sated.
She drips and dances towards her new day
Wearing her warm new fancy.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
why do the trees hug the shoreline so closely?
in twists of tangled arms
green flags, sprouting twigs
the lonely glare, floating in between the mirrored
crisp fractals of light
sliced into the blue deep
a tiny paper boat, sprigged with daisies
sailing the horizon
balancing an endless tightrope
tipping into the pulsing heart of the sky
over the edge
of the world.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
At dawn, her unripe berries glint
A bluish milky white—
Pale ova, pure in their infancy;
The lustrous pearls nest in nooks
Between several sprigged fingers
And sit patiently ‘round her crown,
Clustering at her clavicle;
And her hardy skin
Seeps rich with olfactory bliss—sweet
Sweat of gin, balsamic breath
Of damp, green wood.
She stretches at each fingertip,
Yawning, quietly nursing her young;
She bleeds fertility, silently fruiting,
Flowing maternal certainties.
Her round children suckle preordination
And grow and grow.
Each recoils from chill, dry air, nestles deeply
Into its mother’s folds.
It is winter again, and they
Are white as snow.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC