Russet Whispers And Olivine Stars Poem by Diana Thoresen

My solitary Friday nights are something timeless as I slowly tread
A lynx path past the kind oaks in the Winter Palace courtyard
Images long scattered to the winds burn through me

A man's voice startles me by the statue of Sekhmet-Mut
His intense grey eyes remind me of iridescent labradorite cabochons
He says he has applied for redeployment back in the borderlands today
(I remember how my father's voice changed over the war 8 years ago)
Yes, this guy is stupendous, precious, a creature of flame
He is the mercy in a bodhisattva's sapphire eyes, a Camelot sun prince
Winter gardens amidst elemental kings is where he walks followed by
A halo of silvery light and russet whispers under the olivine stars

I donated blood for the troops despite my bouts of anemia earlier this week
(It was rather, rather awful)
But grain goddesses still guard a well of lemon balm words to make
A wasteland bloom; I search for a chalice amidst phoenix ashes

Might I find it less torturous to have a coffee with him
As a contribution to the war effort?
(He insists it would make him very happy)
A coffee, yes. Good heavens, what a very simple request
But the terrible wisdom of opals and orchids is still in the bitter sea

He does his best to avert his eyes from the low cut black top
As if it was another uncharted minefield
(I wish I had worn a large silk scarf)
But the emerald-green sap of the world is still flowing
O Venus divine, O purring turtle doves, O Tiepolo's luminous clouds

Fundamentally heterogeneous just like the Hermitage
I am different people in different languages
My inflections can be dizzy puppies that joyously jump up
When everybody else goes quiet at the end of a sentence
All hyphenated persons carry a doubleness or a triplicity within
His mouth has a slight touch of cruelty
It's the same dolor Queen Flora take delight in every lusty May
It's every rude doing for a most gentle cause
It's the promise of silence etched in the russet whispers and olivine stars