Thursday, April 15, 2010

On Iceland.

She sighed and the still of her voice
Was a boom box on center stage.
Her words burn like torrid images,
Of sultry lanes and burning microfilm.
She spins through the galaxy;
The planets twirl and whirl
And we are walking on water.
I plant rhododendrons; geraniums;
White lilies and broken bells;
The cold is in the cold,
The wind hollow and we find our way
Through the nakedness.
You said you wouldn’t find me
Anywhere to sit;
Buildings sit like islands on crabgrass.
The wind is whispering,
Sad and lonely songs through the trees.
We cut the grass and the grass is watered daily;
We cut down trees and they wreck havoc
On Iceland.
The sun is shining on the shore, our shore,
The place where we met and dreamt
Big dreams-the place where we found
Inner turmoil and broke through the acid
Rain that flocked the clouds.
We talk to the clouds-
Sing and clouds are reborn,
In the bitterness, the simplistic
The houses were reborn and given
New names.
A new star was born in the sky,
Purple and veiled as a promise.
The still of her voice moved mountains,
And the West winds was stilled.

No comments: