Photo by Max LaRochelle on Unsplash

Crispy Shadows

And the crispy shadows lingered
under belfries and bell towers
like waves held back by sluices
chattering teeth on frozen mornings —
or the first knocking knees of love;
I awoke with a sneeze at the hint
of a dawn grey in its mists, damp
as a duck plunging for breakfast
or a Tolstoy narrative grasping
for a breath of parable;
there are green hillsides sweltering
and islands are melting,
and treetops are playing timpany,
like tenpenny dimes, in this rigid
summertime, while my sunflowers
fold, and fail to bloom, I sit
and weave clouds in a loom.