Circular Azaleas Poem by Marc Creamore

Falling, drifting with a feather’s purpose
down past the echo of breeze kissed trees,
past the reverberation of my children’s
voices,
past the intonation that emanates
from the nostrils of a winged horse
and landing softly in a foreign meadow
caressed by a fifth season.
Oh I weep from the edge
of a balcony of circular azaleas,
feel the blood of eternal birth
mingling between my ancient toes,
I sense the Winter I brought with me
melting from my shoulders,
watch it dropp from the skyline of my mind
like a full moon in Venus.
And I come to realize that I have been placed
inside a vivid canvas, naked and unafraid,
a small speck of luminescent paint
perfectly placed by an evolutionary artist
who creates with the unquestionable
finger of transfiguration
where my misgivings and self doubt
are forgiven and erased.