.
Lying here while she’s not
picking out
stark empty-armed plum tree traceries
Sunday morning world still dark
after forty days of the world night
January 25th a great
vacancy in the creation
matrix
into which return the unageing
eternal things
green entry
out the window in the scrub backyard
the small
dark red plum buds still furled in
to themselves on long thin finger
branches start to swell out
The Plum Blossoms: Henri Matisse, 1948 (Museum of Modern Art)
Printed fabric: Henri Matisse (before 1913) (Museum of Modern Art)
Plum blossoms (Japanese fan): Ogata Korin, 1702 (Honolulu Academy of Arts)
5 comments:
As simple and flowing as your poems initially appear, repeated reading unfurls emotional intricacies. Beautiful, evocative as always.
Ray,
Many thanks--as you know the unfurling of the feeling is what one seeks to follow, always a matter of inner listening and concurrent fumbling to articulate the flow... as it slips through one's hands.
transcendental...
i loved the way i moved away from concrete in this poem...
A warm awakening.
Sí, es cierto.
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