Thursday, November 12, 2009

November in the Mid-Atlantic

O Nature, your primal sanities
Are my disease
And I see my sickness shining
On the endless avenues of common concrete faces
To them I must seem ill

Still I resist their medication
While I'm tempted to be healed-
My mind grows obese on the delicacies
Of sex and gourmet things
And jealousy stokes my hunger

Many are the urban fruits
But each is a bit rotten
A bit plastic
A bit pappig
A bit anonymous
A bit wanton
And mostly deceptive

Trotzdem, On a balmy November day
I smell something familiar and sweet on the air
While standing at the end of the platform
And no one seems to notice

The next day is brooding, grey, and chilled
But once again near the train station
I'm struck by the wild scent
Which I find from flowers
Like little lillies
Silent among sharp osmanthus

So give me your fruits, o nature
Your pure seductions
Your wild rapture
Your chirping crickets mating desperately
Before the first frost
Give me the clean danger of animals and storms and rivers
Where I find my humble place among the universe
Of rocky tundra
Your feast and famine

In conversation ~
"Give me the Splendid, Silent Sun" by Whitman

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

No comments: