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Meadow of matchsticks,
soon to be rekindled
by Spring the incendiary.
The exact flame of your blossoms
will ignite the passions
happily sapped by time--
Dripdrop their excess went
and now miners' hats
light up like love before
your vein, the frame of which
is there to depict the drift,
the waste when I painted
all the review copies
they sent me. But those books
open to polar pages where you
and I weigh the ends of this
teeter totem down, you
at the head and nadir me;
where postmortem is
the aura of self-portrait,
its other half regained at last.
Bill Knott
Read poems about / on: spring, light, time, love, passion
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