“The moon
will carry his candle.”
E. Pound.
I clung for slipping away taste-
a cinnamon in my coffee…
the reflection of vanishing days.
When turned over a corner- I found
new memory, faces, temptation-
old colors and tastes left behind.
New opened up emotions/feelings-
the heavy clouds, smoky and vivid,
yet menacing to leave before
I read the meaning of ‘em in Tarot-
defragmented in small
hail-drop particles
wet!
falling on my so delusional
head…
We're here, counting
the eclipses,
hiking to the moon
obscured from the view.
The shadow shrinks,
the moon awaits,
lit the candle,
rolling/turns the facets to
smiley, surprised, sad ones...
out of throat the Earth/school
-shot!
and all lackluster
honorable mentions
and honor certificates
come alive…
The last curious cheeky
sunbeam peeks in the room
just to witness the fall of million
manufactured bubbles at the ground.
Broken soap dreams
have never existed behind the door…
We walk…stomp-stomp…
remember the joke:
if God wanted us
to have only a head –
he would created
the buns/kolobok.
 |
| Brenda Warren |
