slow through yellow roses
that haven’t bloomed yet
or budded
slow, the flank, the nostril
I follow you while I guide you
as you amble close to a ground
soil, edible, marks, scents,
a brambly riot of last year’s
dried pods, grasses
I cannot know
I cannot know
stained,
with passings by,
tendril of fur
soft,
your eyes, milky
with age.
soft,
your eyes, milky
with age.
reminds me of Robert frost:
ReplyDeletewent to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,--alone,
`As all must be,' I said within my heart,
`Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
a beautiful composition Brenda! indeed a delightful read!