Interred in the earth,
concealed in black crumbs of death,
a bulb dreams of spring.
Wednesday, 31 March 2021
Statues
The
gallant sun vaults lightly overhead
But I am stalled. This daze of déjà-days
Has thinned my spirit to a spider-thread.
Imprisoned with myself, my self I face.
What stranger now upbraids my gentle boy
With words so cold? I numbly recognize
The sterile rage, now spitting unalloyed:
Where now the father, genial and wise?
A memory arrives of playground chat.
I made a face, then came the swift retort:
"The wind'll change, and you'll be stuck like that!"
The thought remains, and I am brought up short.
No statue knows the wind upon its face,
But does it feel that final gust of grace?
But I am stalled. This daze of déjà-days
Has thinned my spirit to a spider-thread.
Imprisoned with myself, my self I face.
What stranger now upbraids my gentle boy
With words so cold? I numbly recognize
The sterile rage, now spitting unalloyed:
Where now the father, genial and wise?
A memory arrives of playground chat.
I made a face, then came the swift retort:
"The wind'll change, and you'll be stuck like that!"
The thought remains, and I am brought up short.
No statue knows the wind upon its face,
But does it feel that final gust of grace?
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