Saturday, October 8, 2011

Thanksgiving Mourning Wing Sounds Poem

It is Thanksgiving in Canada,
there is an opposite season in the world.

October sunflowers return on the hillside in random rows.

Seedlings from my colossal variegated propped up blooms.

A cherry tomato gone wild is more elegant than Monsanto’s.

I was honest last Thanksgiving,
but he holds his own version story.

How long will the healing process take?

How should I know?

My life has an egg timer, there are three mouths to feed.

After years of caring, the heart does not want
 to let loose the guide rope so easy.

A hot air balloon unattached to the basket
mid-air mid-life wanting to stay connected.
Missing the sound of the girlies wings.

Pruning of my hybrid teas does not change
ramblings of climbers & stray hummingbirds.
I am happy in my soul.

I stopped filling the feeders,
 I gave up the trail with old haunts,
until my fingers bleed at the cuticles,
but still that sprout gets into my dreams.

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