Digital Times in bed, 6am, hear the
Tufted titmouse twee, twee, twee by the window.
He lives in the attic above the bed
Flitting onto the Rose of Sharon
in early dawn. Leaves rustling, swirl wildly,
Scarlet, Gold, brown and Orange fall through Grey Light.
Leaves Luffing down, like a Sail, headed straight into
Wind, going nowhere, just luff upon luff.
We are In Irons, Head down and Fall off.
Reasoning knows magniloquence will be punished.
Severe reprimands administered to the winsome.
Rash coffee splash as I grab the Umbrella,
Carolina wren going dit and dit-dit–
Time now for my hand shoved deep into its pocket,
Heart held tightly in my closed mouth.
Ambiguous relations between words and deeds,
Leaves of brown swirling round erotic tales.
Willow swings and sways to a forlorn tune as
Lofty aspirations are bashed and mocked,
Suffocating in ironies, gutters
Clogged with dead leaves, begging to be blown free.
Passing, flowing on to old age, threadbare
Overcoats call out to the shivering
Aged in cancer wards losing their funds.
The bars of Music define the time,
Tasting the Strength of our beats we repeat
Choruses of fallen leaves, we re-imagine.
When the coat is only patches count your
Gold coins and purchase a new winter coat.
Mind it is never stolen.
Her hand. Oh her hand. If only I could
Make her a hand. Withstanding this suffering,
Knelling to the man, impractical wish
for a new hand. She shows up each day
In the grind, till remaining fingers
Stubbed with time, can feed the children.
Scrawny and gaunt yet filled with difficult dreams,
Then her Nikki sent her a Rose of the
Sweetest inspiration and she scraped
Herself off the floor and aspired to
Joan of Arc, no longer would she fear
Death by Fire or Ice. She would not
Need to die this time she heard the raven
As she opened the window and called
Absolute reality, not some
Impossible dream but rather a
Persuasive awakening into mortality.
Wills to will, willfully validating
Her war against Saturn’s sickle cycle.
She travels to Florida and plays
Her accordion on the unmarked grave.
She embraces the thorns of the ancestral
Rose. Moths clutter round the radiance
Of her glow. Yet, Her wind blast collapses
Their void. Beams of splendid incandescence
Shoot from her Now, the I am Now that
She ever is.