“Sitting Here”

“Sitting Here”

Sitting here between your words,the hours;
The candles’ sacrifice, it’s true, but not at all the station of the wick.
The privileged chosen sands descend, dusts upon

the double helix of the spring are thick
With meaning in the advent of the summer’s exhumation of the land,

moisture in the fumes,
the perennial perfume of many centuries’ progeny in fauna and flowers;
Pause the prayer, witness the intoxication of a new-mown field of hay, alfalfa,
And perhaps so many golden tares, and beyond,

some puerile riot in the sunflowers
Stand watch over the green-sprays’ breeze of spring in seas of winter wheat,
and humid tensions in the periodic stroke of the oddly incremental bower,
Birds delirious that have neither care nor common sense so far from
Nests and in such thickness here above these plots that dawns
And dusks are much the same when yet another clutch
Is free and moths there in the morning

of their annual marathon must be fed―a touch,
That knowing look from Arachne

neither fans the flames nor mitigate the flood of all her pawns,
Induced to stagger in the twilight―harsh promiscuous instincts in the cue
préoccupy fecund movement, in such pernicious natural opulence as sets the pace for all survival and never comes too late.

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