fairy tale

fairy tale

it is late spring, the petals are steadily drying,

the dry months fly ahead on  buzzard wings,

 

we’re acutely aware of the verdancy’s dying,

amid the falling flowers a woman paces

 

in her pink robe, a poet without words,

bees toddle, their legs splotched with pollen

 

as they flutter from one stamen to another,

intoxicated with the nectar of being,

 

while the woman sings of unkept promises,

cold coffee, stale toast, and dreams

 

of unbuttered things, away from false fealty,

she stretches her arms laterally, and bends

 

one leg back like a heron, her knee twitching,

balancing beneath the blue sky, tongue protruding

 

from thin cheeks, humming as if she is an airplane

soaring with no destination in mind,

 

until she crashes in the brambly bushes,

and arises, wearing a crown of twigs and briers.

 

-painting by Edward Vuillard

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s