This poem forms a pair with the previous one (see yesterday's blog entry).
This wheel’s unseen circumference
includes a coffee can
from Hart – a Savarin,
no? – looping a salience
of tulip spires (languid, voluptuous,
orange). For Hart, Johns
sounded gray Ocean
& signaled with a palm Love’s
one transparent spring (from deep
to deep). A little tree –
lemon? – mustard, maybe;
the orange flourish of a steep
green trumpet, embracing its iron
lattice like a bride
in May... no one can hide
from Love’s almond dominion.
This doctrine bides each alteration.
A sigh amid these wheels
rides wingèd heels
from scythe to seedy germination –
Time’s origin (space-flowering).
Leaf-whispers from a pair
of olive trees, who share
one catenary pattern... stirring
life-draft, dangled from twin pillars,
lifted toward Pacific
azure – scarred, terrific
sentinels of hope (hers, yours).
Tulips (Nancy Hart)