Poetry

Dream of the Daylily

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hiding beneath the darkness
Not knowing what you will be
You winter in impatience
Part of a mysterious and green maternity

Movement begins with slowness and purpose
Moisture splashes against your growth
Warmth and Wind both comfort and caress
Strength and vulnerability insist on your friendship

Pushing up and outward, wonder gives way
“A bud, that’s what I am,” you say
Oval and slender, ever elongating
But that is not all…a force within yearns for expression

Once more, the turmoil of mistaken identity
And now a pain, demanding release
Layers of softness suddenly become conscious
A Striving spectrum of vitality and visibility

Then a crack appears, unlocking upwards
Folds of force greet tender light and dew
Warmth beckons the fullness to perfection
Raptured color stands tall and proud

Yet…such short hours of clarity wane
The bright light dims and weakness steals in
“Who am I now?”…

Poetry

Grief 1998

   It is excision,
       Precise, clean,
            surgically accurate. 

     So quick in its movement that the end created is not
splayed or jagged
       – a fine cut, so swift that the depth is uncertain,
             but most definitely abysmal. 

                         A cutting away, or from, that ever stifles the gasp,
leaving a shockwave that stuns in its overwhelming disorientation.