The Sound of Honey Pouring
Curtains, she said,
meaning the end of something,
not innocence, no,
but something like it,
buoyant, floating really
above the dusty road.
How was she to find the tree
with dusk half done,
in flip-flops and red painted toenails?
It wasn’t easy to have a mission.
This stirring wasn’t even caused by love.
Love at least would have pulled her out,
out of the tyranny of self-boredom.
Or was it love?
The child told her the magic,
and there was something about her eyes
that held branches, like corpses mourned,
and she had to touch the ancient oak
that had become so much more.
Hah, she thought,
I am endangered in the drift
of some colored cloth,
a parachute, wind tossed
into something bigger
and it floats but is so sure
Listen for the sound honey makes
the tree makes that sound.
[This message has been edited by Martie (12-12-2002 10:04 PM).]