MAY THE DYING SAVE US

Something falling down to tangle summer

Flashes, resting on a sorrel tip: a piece

Of cotton come to bear the whirl and blur,

The burden of the dying trees,

 

When limbs are shorn of skin like lambs,

When little bits of fleece like this

Hold the future of the barren land,

The history of the fold, in chrysalis:

 

Deceptive root that looks like bloom,

Embryo that looks like snow,

Milkweed tassel washing slowly down

The lip of night to fold,

 

To blanket soil in seed like rice,

Foam that wraps the ground in mold,

Coat our summertime in ice

And keep it from the cold. 

 

September 19th, 1995 “Advice to a Poet”

Tippet Alley

Redone September 19th, 2004

Luxembourg