xxxv
tetrahedral pentatope
in the spring of my hopelessness i planted a garden
planting hope to dance my eye with bee or butterfly
and why i don’t know why why should
reasons confound as much they answer
and seasons sometimes turn without we notice turning
it’s better to plant when falls the fall
but no one likes to start
beginning towards the bottom
(even if that’s where your head is headed)
waistbent guise spies’ flowers of eyes
recalled myself a whelpling pup my brood conveyed a prayer
for the mantis pray she stay
(as her kind had grown so rare)
a careful seed then planted there
and seems to’ve grown a sad garden
where hope hoped for the traveler’s respite
from the motions and the paths and the seasons of hearts out of heights
(because we gain with our give) accursed or alight
little did we know that green nun was a shadow in the home safe night
exotic and terrifying poise
flew from her home to nunnery a garden
and stalks an invader would
plainly
hiding sundrenched flowers sway
dance deadly deception
you mightn’t know if she was watching
(and you wouldn’t if you didn’t look to know)
spell caught charisma
while we joyed our eyes
our flutter orange bird
at the time, there it was in my sad sunny garden
and was the only one
(i’d hoped a pair, as his kind had grown so rare)
popping out from plant to plant to bubble in a lonely glass of celebration
had learned to leap in seasons
far from here to just now there
each stride a step
each step a stride with reasons
springs summer’s height to winter’s fall
we change to meet our changing
(and such a transformation undertaken!
turns house a home and turning)
spirit suggesting something bigger than a butterfly
like the shifting of a weathered day
he was a lunging tiger burst floats auburn autumn showers
wondrous as wonderful and regal as repose
so many once there was they draped themselves
a shimmering garment tree proud grove
flickering waves a star shone giant
who being so strong had killed to prove it could
and so often done it wore its death with the grace of should
at times i think there would be no tragedy without beauty
the monarchs are mostly gone
we’d named their home a weed
(a word for that you’d rather do without)
and proved the world is made of things imagined
(because imagining without we do, we do without)
so glad my story i was i watched my flurry visitor
light about its unwanted flower home and brood
perhaps the world is a beautiful place
sometimes it feels like we could say for right
there are rhythms we can feel
there are rhythms in our flight
i lost some time once, its always in the last place you look for it.
Neil Gainman