I pursue the itching notions-
the day I fall before the crossfire,
When the air’s innocent breath
is kissed upon the brow,
Flushing my lips with passionate scarlet-
That’s bleeding cerise from the tips of Amaryllis,
Mending against the folding of Crimson Maple.
My heartstrings are strummed by the elegant gales;
Sounding my pasting instrument
like a sorrowing opus,
Sweltering within the hearth of my ashen chest
as its ebony cinders scald my tender breast.
My discernments became strayed-
blinded by mirrored puddles;
Reflecting of such tempests I once called my past.
And so my grudging path of torrential rain
softens profoundly-
To the feathered flakes of snow,
Blanketing a colorblind earth for its yearly slumber.
As my silken eyes, following,
the French tipped branches,
Forming constellations of the arabesque-
Amid the façade of winter oceans.
A droning whisper, in the offing,
stirring my beaded eyes-
For the burgeoning of mock orange
and influx of the Painted Trillium,
Filling boundless paddocks to the brim-
Who’s gilded of the Black Birch,
where the darkest of hills divide,
Holding a seldom light within the limbs-
of the sleuthing undertone-
Allocating my naked eyes with its promising kindle.
I am driven to the sallowness of its softened edge,
Ridding of trying shadows
that once followed my wounded ends.