This is the week the yellow currant blows.
Blows through the yellow downwind house
we had one spring, all the starboard windows
open day and night to let the fragrance in,
the place so full of sweetness
we thought it would explode.
|Beehive Tucked In A Bend Of The River
Crows have what dogs lost.
This lonely place where the river looks east,
But they weren't beehives, they were books,
boxes full of books, a dozen stout tomato crates
with lids taped tight and stacked three high,
painted enamel white. Through the narrow handle slots
we could see a few. Neruda. Virgil. Blake.
All poetry from the looks of it, left carefully behind
to melt away among the wild currants
and buckbrush, revert, already settling,
weathering in. One of them leaked a faint trickle,
something clear and viscous oozing down the side
a syrup, a resin, or a glue. Oil of opposum?
Hard to say. Maybe a nectar. Orb-weaver lees.
Maybe even a honey.
|Fulcrum (Bowl With Wild Plums
September 14: They say the cliff swallow
is half an inch longer than the violet-green.
Yesterday, north wind on the South Platte,
flickering free-fall olive speckled with citron.
Now south wind over the North Platte,
shimmering chanterelle singe and glow.
Right and left. A dog sniffing flowers
for a change. The colors of the cliff swallow
the very same as the bay-breast's.
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