Friday, March 15, 2013

he of the pale orchid








                       — Inspired by "she of the pale marigold" by Danny Beatty



melodious murmurs of dusk permeate
my contemplations of autumnal cellos echoing on crisped wind

burdened oaks rise slowly beneath brisk flurries
bent, but never cracked against the night sky

butterflies' stained-glass wings drift forward
where many gardens flourish

stones fall from mountain's fickle memory
cast below into valleys of lace and song
he listens to my breath as I slumber 
and smiles at rivers flowing to the sea carrying quiet laughter of leaves
dew upon the petals once wept in joyfulness

all the children we remember we once were
are wisps of smoke aloft as fireflies on a summer's eve

he of the pale orchid

his hands stir within my hair weaving threnodies
winding symphonies inside dawn's ascent

our realm bespeaks of royalty
though coins are scarce, our crowns gleam

he of the pale orchid spends his delight
upon furtive movements of birds whose crumbs are savored, 
cast onto wooden floors by silent passions of wings
shining in the midday sun

sailing we are on open waters
our shadows stretched toward new horizons

he gathers me like driftwood;
not for the burning, 
but for the feasts yet to come