An Inexplicable Thorn In My Side Poem by Nathaniel A.Wallace

I am from the this-a-cup and that-a-cup
Of lemonade and honeydew -
Betwixt the only remaining
Dried flowers of my childhood
That ‘ready-made, keep up their façade;

I stack images on the roses in my garden
Climbing up the garage wall,
I keep secrets there, and in the Bush of Moths,
Fluttering out with prolixity when hose-sprayed,
And, interestingly enough,
In the sound of nothing - the cry of construction
Dropping like Promethean fire
Of ages in hot summer air
In the stuff (ing) of evergreen trees,
That I hear -

I sing like a cawing crow
Or twittering tree, like
Rustling birds' feathers and
Of thorns in my roses;

I incessantly smote the grey
Pallor of day,
With fury, on my face, into the ground
And my love is still in a corner of the centerpiece -

Though it towers unto the end of the block;
My home is the self-same, rugged, deciduous Canada,
Land of the lone tree on a hill in the horizon.