Verdance

I.

Pine leaves flow through my soul.

 

Verdance.

 

 

II.

I spat out

the unobtrusive seed

of

tender blood orange

grown from a yard

and softened

and shrunken and ripe.

 

I gaze now on the glistening folds

of the drenched plants

outside

our Portland home.

 

If this is not

Paradise,

then I don’t know

what is.

 

As the metal cog of my spine

grates with discomfort

against

the spectacular cement

of sprawling cities

 

and I feel as alone

as a copper wire

thrust

into the opening or lobe

of some antennae

sharpened

against the tooth of man’s indifference.

 

But here,

where the Sun dips over the hedges

and loses herself

amidst the World,

and the children are faraway

aging without our resolve,

and things seem to vanish and appear

as unintelligibly delicate

as man,

obfuscating

wonder

in his own

illustrious skin,

set against the backdrop of the stars,

at last

fundamentally aware

of who we are.

 

 

02/07/2017

Lake Oswego

Please reload

  • patreon_logo_black
  • Instagram - Black Circle

Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada