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