No conga line of perennials and songbirds
more a slow waltz in 6/8. Sometimes
the music fades, the score wanders.
Notation of hard buds, closed brown and grey
in one movement guitar riff to green.
A wan and diluted sun
conducts butterflies out for weeks:
spring's suicide-bombers, hoping
in vain for flowers.
Flourished finish:
an arpeggio of
swallows.
(And lingering after, violin
whine: the first
mosquito.)
2 comments:
"Notation of hard buds" really kicks my ass. (Which is code for: I like! I really like!)
Also: "Sometimes / the music fades, the score wanders."
So nice...
And I don't even mind the terrorist reference amidst the comparing-spring-to-an-orchestra.
Thanks!
Great poem! Really enjoyed this. Tight.
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