Between the Widow and the Plume.

What should have been. This is not. What is? What ever is? What is ever we wish? Dreams deferred and redefined. Undefined. Displaced. Misplaced. Behind the jars.

I never thought love could be uninspiring. I once thought I could touch life. Tease it. Embrace it. Rest its plumes at my breast. Outstretched I grasped at gulfs. Only to stare. Stare! What poetry in this moment! What restless poetry. Coalescing. Reaffirming. Disrobing. Gossamer. Glistening off into the gloaming.

Upon the banks of the Hudson. Train steaming north into disgrace. Wilted marigolds in the desert haze. Feeling in the words. All life and love in the words. The great granite heat of the beating day! Withered defeat to the gape of some mischievous, deceiving dawn. Say to me again. Tilt. Tilt.

Let this moment skip to the last.

Rapturous winds. Flagrant pleroma of the unity of now. Lightness of day. Purity of air. Convergence of east and west. Future and former. Blink. Desolate night. All gone. All away.

Away with them I said. And they have done away with me.

Until they show again.

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About grasshopperstothemoon

“Two things awe me most, the starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”
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One Response to Between the Widow and the Plume.

  1. You’ve done a good job of conveying the ups and downs of life here, the “great granite heat of the beating day.”

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