Rosa Hadley


Saga Of The Spark, Part 6 - Poem by Rosa Hadley

6.

To think a year has passed over us
and the dandelions climb somnolently over the green
in their encumbering and pollen-laden safekeeping.
A summer dream so slowly swaddling
in blissful emerald slumber tenderness
A smoldering wound in this ancient heart
enfolded in aeons of sleep, and aeons of time.

Beauty tumbling of itself to silverness
and hoary-headed hidden gossamer.
The drowsy swandown snow of our descent
and the descent of summer, slumber's kiss.
Aeons, aeons... I could mark them on the drum of a heart
Or the scrawling inkmarks of an anguished page.
Or loveletters from long ago, still living.
It's so beautiful, that they come here, always.

And that love could endure like some spiritual citadel
in vanquishing green that tramples whole cities underfoot.

My desire, the ocean
turns in its bed of stones to tenderness
in the constancy of our dear bracing descent
and words of stone or coral, tossed anchorless
but safe. As your heart is safe in its destiny.

And her tasseled bounty finds its words
in silent kindness, and blameless severance
Of blossom nod, and a subtle poem
Gnawing stonelike in the inmost heart.

Subtle song of distant violin
and clothes hung out to dry, so charmingly
as if a heart, a poem, a city, love story, endures
and beholds all of this savage glory.

A city... what nostalgia. A countryside
of sleepy green and meadow sprawl
Where the poet pauses often as she writes
and you embrace, the way you'd always meant to
you say the words, so slowly, and so numbered,
like a loss. And it is the knowledge
of our fleeing tenderness.

And it is a promise
to seal us together
in the abyss of eternity.

_

A heart at anchor, in the limits of this land
and dragged down with honey and burdensome with fruit.
Deft sempstress of necessity. Her silent hand
weaves so much more slowly, now, descending
Gentleness unrushed, and cruelty softened
in our green slumber and our mercy of dreams.
Wild strawberries reddening the fields, like stars -

Dearest, we need not keep them.
Words once so worrisome
are no longer our relentless destiny.

Our destiny is loss. Our destiny is wasp-kiss,
and dreams. Beauty we cannot bear forever
and in the end, only unspoken words
that we can hold on to. Necessity
a word that will not let us go.

Necessity is simple now, I promise you
the world is so much slower spinning down
than it is in the swiftness of flower rise
and of blossom theft and ravages.

And there is something here, beyond her
and beyond our temporal emerald aeon
and the drowsy rampage of blossom end.
Beyond the trampling longing, I promise, is safety -
I promise you, you'll find me there, past want and time
your heart be safe and its wounds salved and kissed.

To kiss the blossoms as they shut their eyes
to kiss you as your eyes are shut to me.

Past this solemn wasp-blessing,
past this muteness and this finish.
You will find me. Lost already,
touched by death or touched by falling
lost and safe, oblivion of your arms!

The lustre of my hair is wound with grey
though it is hidden, as the earth hides snow
and silence holds the sweet inevitable
Necessity... that fields are going down
from blossoming to drowsiness to silver
narcoleptic tenderness knee-deep in slumber
knee-deep in desire, knee-deep in stinging dreams!
Overtaken with the swarming drone of bees.
To kiss the blossoms as they shut their eyes
to bear us safely past our paradise.

Your warmest, safest heart beyond all else
as wanderlust, it settles to this pretty place
where we set down our weary limbs within
the pollen-laden limits of the land.

Having known fire, having known truly terror.
Having known floods and conflagrations.
Have known the spark of love miraculous
disastrous, and eternal.
As immortal water pours
into our dreams and veins, awakenings.

_

This, we stand amid.

The numb and lovely longing
falling down in flower and in silver and in tenderness
all trance of living, emerald vertigo
to vertigo in trembling green salvation
and in the welkin beholds all of this -

The poem that clenches us to dwelling in this land
these lulling poppies, mooring stone roots, green millinery
and luminous oblivion come undone
or magic sealed within a honeycomb.

Poem of no end, my darling
poem ever bleeding to you.

_

These are the hills of time
as they begin to enfold me.

Strewn with flowers, your arms
drunk with desire and tangling together
in the yawning slowness of time coming over us
vital and cumbersome and inevitable
that loveliness sinks into the lush looming green.

Bearing salvation blissful in all of our ravages
so much slower in its falling down.

Lulling where I have hurt to love you
and sealing poem's blood thunder in the heart
sealing the ache of honey from endless dripping...
the bees come over us, so cobweb soft
the gossamer... of wisdom, swanfeather fate.

At rest is wanderlust, settled like pollen dust
at rest is avian spun-silver chantery
at rest the shimmering catch of the butterflies
no longer blind in desire, sudden
now soaked, stand here waiting and knowing.

Knowing in the serenity of the inevitable
Knowing you must return, to this
this knot that holds us both forever.

I know you must return
and know we must
come tumbling like stars
to blossom dust.

And even when I swooned among the starry dawdling
of dandelions, and meadows measureless abloom.
Blowsy with glory and cumbersome with beauty!
and tears fall like dewdrops to the listening earth
same earth beneath us, and is always that.
Same sky above us, and always.

And do you know what?
I love you better now.

Looking out over meadows and drowsy fields
dust of gold or silver, and thinking, this
is where I want to be, tangled with pollen
in your arms touched with life and tumbling down
garlanded with riddles and flowers, made holy with them.

Holy lush green
And the summoned red of our blushing blood
Gold of the pollen and sun
White as the bones of loving and knowing
all here, white as swandown, white as stars
and white as time.

I promise you -
There is a silver under all of this
there is a silent silver there to take us in
when nothing else will.

A silver to bind up wounds
and a silver to bind up wings.

The kiss of sleep.
And death, my dear
the gentlest touch.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, June 17, 2008



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