Spotty grackles swarm the dogwood,
chatty starlings nibbling
scarlet berries, quibbling
around each drooping leaf (old
ruddy father). They traipse a happy
nonsense o’er the remnant
garden. Sir Thomas Browne,
strum softly til I end my Rhody
nap (it won’t be long). Your Persian
paradise (precisely drawn)
will do for Gödel, Dante –
not so simple to sketch that Abyssinian
abyss, encircling the human plow
through history. Your soul
is touched by lost photo
whose courteous artist limns her now –
an April child glimpsed through November
shades (All Souls, Grandpa).
One unicorn grace, selah.
O woe to me, that scarred the moon (her
face still gleams from autumn grass).
A soft Franciscan Rimini
rhymes in the memory
of your basilica (on ne passe pas).
Dear evening Matilda, 1-3-2...
(Beethoven, fowled & quartered –
decussation – weathered
sprite). All shall be well, hums Manitou.
laundry line, old lilac, light Brownian diamond
Rhody backyard I must leave ere long