In you there lives sunshine and rain. You are
deliberate. I see dahlias, zinnias, and granite illusions; my lungs knit
meditation. By sky to travel—without jet nor airplane: never thought to remove
you—from arc, science, your drumbeats, nor cello; most rotten beginning—we knitted
seams—moving too quickly, taking humans for granted, as we do. I hear anxiety,
not mere pains, deep anguish in life: by prayer of microphones, telescopes, and
answering machines—to know you are jazz, blues, and guitar; celebrated in
circles, bellflowers and petals, rhinestones meant for ornaments; fuming in
skin, winds debating structures, throwing caution a reminder.
To nestle with animosity, to let it sing, have we not
seduced self?
I was too even for you. Things seemed in order, during
disorder, to wonder why you would contend with order.
I accused. You disagreed. Sunshine was confronted,
happiness must be more than core person, to deliver one to miseries, old
ancestors, anguish seated in genealogy. Evermore, silence ruminating, an
overseer seeming mad, much discontent with one disdained. In truth, emphases on
one’s past, life, nature, what has died in its blossoming?
