Thursday, October 18, 2007

To Be In Clover

Never thought the seeding would take
that the finest tiny grains
would find their way to salvation
to germination
to a burst of inspiration
after being cast on such sterile
stony ground.

Thought it would be over, was over
after the black frost of October
of departure
and the end of crimson blossoms
four leaf clovers
or the specter
of relief.

But among the dew matted fallen leaves
among the shocks and tied up sheaves
a tiny meadow has emerged
a patch of green not yet interred
and the prospect of my own fixation
and the distance of sanctification
are altered by the legume
grafted by her rune
and fallowed
by the liming
of her love.

2 comments:

wyethhouse said...

layers and layers of meaning... beautifully written

_Soulless_ said...

a patch of green not yet interred

That line lingers, clings.

Excellent word choice on the last word "interred". Fits so well.