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


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