The ruffles of a cloud are like a rose
Recalling past romance; the flaming pyre
Of setting sun recalls a warm wood fire.
Old bark-stripped wood reflects a dryad’s pose.
Rain mimics the faint rattle of parades;
Bright, brassy sounds recall a marigold.
A trumpet vine blares music bright and bold.
All link together with the watery shades
Of fronds that fall upon the window sill,
Where ferny fingers play sonatas for
Lost wavering shadows flickering at the door,
And memory’s enticed to rise and thrill
To sequences of all that we can see
And touch. The rest remains a mystery.
The Difference Between Noise And Sound
Previously published in Trinacria
No longer must I listen to your speech,
Or show up when you call, or think I should.
For I am now so far beyond your reach
I could not answer even if I would.
Your drab and petty tunes can only bore;
Chaotic gabble you can’t rearrange
Has faded. Now I hear a better score
That swells in from the distance, rare and strange.
It’s much too late to put me on the spot,
Or drown me where the waves of insult pound.
Some bend the knee to silence; I do not —
I simply choose to sort out noise from sound.
Just Before Dinner
There weren’t as many lights as there are now,
Nor was I quite so brash, and not as tall
As I knelt on the rug and pondered how
To draw a tree or just to doodle. Still,
I dawdled there among the heavy chairs
Avoiding tasks while waiting for the meal.
Go drain potatoes! Set the table! Pairs
Of spoons, then glasses. Napkins might reveal
A vision of the future, monogrammed;
Well made, to serve in other times and noons.
I might have leapt to answer a command,
But this was not to be. There were no runes
To read, no signs or signals rising from
The steaming dumplings, and the stew was dumb.