What hierarchy of love and choice
shall have exacted it of us,
that to the shame of all our yearning
the body goes foul on its bones, beyond
its own or any pardon?
The sky already is quivering
with snow, and I think how it was
all summer the leaves of the McIntosh
were green as I have imagined ice
at the hearts of glaciers to be green,
while in July there were times
when, about to sleep, I might have sworn
that by morning the lawns would be stiff with frost,
the calendulas collapsed on their stems,
petals corollas of golden ice;
might equally have sworn... Read more
TAGS:
creative writing,
poem