Page 2, Notebook #11
The grass pasture is exactly emerald green,
inviting as a field of apple red poppies.
The single fir tree pays rustling blue witness
to Nature’s inspired sculpting of the land.
is silvered by the quickening light of spring,
is garlanded with anticipation for summer’s coronation.
the barony of spring prepares for summer’s empire.
We write poems about private weather that feels like a vague weight.
We muse about rooms where death visits on wooden wings.
Our poems fill the air with shimmering confetti
or cast shadows that spread like a wine stain on white linen minds.
There are surprises, combustible cows, sentient snowmen, unlikely love,
and dreams, we write and write about the endless surprise of dreams.
Organically or devised, the end must be written,
sometimes for clarity or closure, sometimes,
for that one great moment in a poet’s life, the invention
of an ending that comes out right.