Ignorant of flora species
the foxglove planted
along the walkway to my flat
(near the cheesy false pond and fountain)
was picked for a woman possessed
of a rare, most well preserved spirit.
Afterward,
along with the floral identification
accomplished via botanist handbook,
came the curious realization
that her athlete's heartbeat
(so slow, so sure, so strong)
worked as if governed
by the pharmaceutic harvested
from those selfsame petals,
while I would have had it
quick contract, skip a stroke...
or at least have her stomach stirred
by the subtly curling currents
left by metaphoric monarch wings.
Most homemakerly was I hanging prints,
musing on Van Gogh's famously digitoxic vision
clearly evidenced in suns, starred night skies,
lanterns, moons, candles -
light radiating about the source,
concentric circles whorling round
a pebble's plop in a still mill-pond.
The print was Cafe Terrace at Night
and I wondered if we'd ever make it there,
to sit and whet oursleves by candlelight.
No comments:
Post a Comment