The French doors swung open with a smack;
icy to the touch,
every shard of glass susceptible to pounding of wind
between violet rounds,
I wonder as to what the ground holds sacred,
why November flowering at dusk is quiet?
The heavier sky,
sweet and sour embraces where wild simply grows,
where wild simply growsβ€”
do we side with sacrilegious joy or holier ache?

Scent would diminish, would simply fade away
if we did not exchange it from time to time,
chrysanthemums bursting,
coming into play; I’d say their temperament is fickle,
unlike that of an arrow, a whale,
or grapesβ€”
soon it will be time for darkness to sweep the trees,
newspaper, thickest of traffic,
I wonder what bitterness would voice first
if it could,
between scuffle of feet and fight, between
scuffle of feet and fightβ€”
do we bid our time or bellyflop without deviation?
The French doors swung shut with a smack.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Kristina Skoreva, ‘flower in clear glass vase’, Unsplash

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Posted for Poetics: Concrete or Abstract @dVerse Poets Pub