A Wildflower Dream.

Shines above, the light that finds
The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower,
Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds
By the bygone dream’s shadow that pleaches
Virgin buttresses from this cold pearl of the night.

Autumn is the dark, dark
Leaf that floats through some wind now,
Along with the scathed wintery hands
That breathe the tender desire of the crevice
Of an adorned motet of softened putters
That strike the embouchure of the dark, dark shawl
Stitched with the surf of a drowned, frail wind;

And evening makes me want to sleep,
From the sounds of those patters from besotted cats
That are the penumbra that lingers, silently,
Just as the wind cools the glass,
And as the window shines from the light,
Encroached by the settled winds, and as man from bones,
Or bones from man—from the touch of chill,
And wept from rivers, sterling from the whispers
As the rivers call—from tender winds,
With slim, ragged and old frost
That curled around the ocean,
Flickering as the lost, lost dream
Like a wildflower that is tender in the wind
With petals, worth of the shawl that means
To wreath the lands, as they were, from the
Wandering, lustrous pale petals
That were blown onto the ground.

With those unclad willows, prone to death,
And death is in the hallowed sea from before,
Wraith to the meadows, thin with the ivy breath
Of fallen glistened tears that surmount the rivers,
Torn from the leaf and lilac, stemmed from tree,
The bark, round and dead; and the faint wind,
Coughs into the cold night,
That which becomes deaf through time,
As the voice would be curled and would float upon silent rivers,
And these drapes would fit fine within the old dream of the sea,
That broke between the shivers and showers—born from snow,
And picked by gentle bidding winds of the eve,
Just as the strained wrath of this hope that steadies the frail willows,
Just as a wildflower dream.

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3 thoughts on “A Wildflower Dream.”

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