There are mornings I don’t want, the fuzzy mornings of Vermont, those hated mornings without light, as you are getting out of sight. There are those mornings without you, of astonishing loss of interior sinew, those mornings lasting a century, for weed arises just in botany. The carriage of winds lost a wheel. Nipping off the burgeoning buds, the hailstorm. White faces of crickets, dandelions dancing, wings and seeds, a romance under thunder. On the verge of fear, a quandary, a blunder.
Come to me twisting, I call on you, even if you ain’t left and never do. Don’t let no morning for me to whirl around and around without you, girl. Come here, only I am the man whose eyes are flowers when looking at you, now and then, over and over again. Remembrance of you expands on the sky, covering the sun with a righteous light. What pierces my heart like a wrought sharper iron, for what word, what deed, what pattern?
0 Responses to “Middlebury: dandelions dancing with crickets”