Each year, the mighty willow
on the corner, trunk three feet around,
or more,
hums with the buzzing saws that
trim it to the trunk.
Supple yellow switches, eager for naughty backsides
or basket making pile on either side of the fence,
gathered for scrap not utility,
and a giant stands naked again.
Your fingers are dancing
across the keyboard and your
melodies waltz through the air
tickling me to wakefulness.
My nostrils are bitten
by the brisk scent of pine,
invigorating, enervating in the rain.
I follow my nose
to two freshly felled stumps
and marvel that death can smell
so very much alive.
You are landscape:
hills curled around valleys,
shoulder arced over head
thighs a rounded panorama.
You are pushed up against darkness,
it puddles beneath your breasts,
but waken, beauty.
Light lingers on your glistening skin;
dawn caresses your body,
an invitation to fall in love with day.
.
.
I’m admiring the art on my wall again. This poem is written about this drawing: https://shawnbird.com/2015/02/21/poem-the-light-returns/ How thankful I am for Elaine’s skills. The artist in me greets the artist in thee! Namaste.
The sky is dappled with gold
glistening spots carried in the breeze,
waltzing with the wind,
raining down upon me,
autumn leaves.
You rise, a blood red orb,
taunting star-gazers as you
cover your face behind a grey blanket.
Your chocolate eyes are caramel today
I want to savour your gaze,
feel its sweetness
against the bitter cocoa bite,
butterscotch touch upon my tongue
your vision devouring me in turn.
Between the slats of the Venetian blinds,
I see outside the window, to frenzied frolicking
blue spruce bouncing
pine tree pirouetting
maple making waves
beneath a grey sky
dancing in time to my wind chime’s tune.
I see through poet’s eyes
life recorded in metaphor
ideas dancing with possibilities.
I hear through poet’s ears
the humming of memory
the clatter of change
the sibilance of serenity
I touch through poet’s hands
hard thoughts,
rough realities,
soft dreams.
I smell through a poet’s nose
freshly mown hay of a summer day
leaves burning in an autumn evening
I taste through a poet’s tongue
the sourness of betrayals
the sweetness of hope
The poet has an infinity of senses
that reach into history
and unravel mysteries.
Shawn L. Bird 