The anemone meets the vague warmness of your springtime air,
though the streets are full of turning meat and trees of fruit are bare.
He lowers his omniscient arms and tickles heaven and grass,
while hungry dogs and babes alike ferment to their last.
The solitary god, tired as the moon is wasted in your place,
graces your belligerent youth and dusts their candid shoulders
with his cool and foreboding old man’s whiskers
and dresses the British skyline with his royal brace.
Willow, you move as though time waits—
as though children grow to men and
beasts, too, have a special spot
that your wise whiskers can tickle.
Trees suffocate in your whispery willow manner
and boys and men turn to dust while you,
lonely hermit, look down at the rest of the sealife:
to you they are not just lewd and dissonant,
to you they are colourful and prolific,
more than their lackadaisical mock misery,
they are like autumn leaves still soft
(though maybe a bit gnarled and soused).
You nod slow when the wind tuts at your sentimentality;
she tries to uproot you and feed the absent Eden of your planet,
planting sallow seeds around your swollen god’s thumb
as you (not listening) and the Earth remain one.
Posted to OneStopPoetry for their One Shot Wednesday initiative. Check it out at http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/