Yellow-gold forsythia

TWO CIRCLES

Down by the spring river, tossing sticks

in prehistoric Mizz,

my Jordan – little Isis-

canoes, or Ferrarese six-

wheelers; in my mind’s darkroom

recalling you – Love’s raven-

haired sybil (guardian

at the Rock’s entrance).  Your gloom

when my father’s birthday wheeled around

each April.  The yellow-gold

forsythia enfold

your mother’s grave, who died... O sound

those flowery depths, Ophelia –

and rise again!  He was

a good man – rays

of intellectual Amor blessed his day;

he might have walked her from that grave.

A little light only,

through camera oscura...

you know.  You showed me her cave

in San Francisco’s spare kitchen –

where a thin light-blade

infiltrates the Maid

so Piero’s hypno-sarabande might spin

anew (red cedar, blue spruce, evergreen).

Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait with

Two Circles... one light-heavy scythe

defines this wheel’s circumference (unseen).

4.12.16