Spring Snow At Sixty Six Poem by Warren Falcon

And so on. On it goes.

Afterglow,
for what it's worth.

Not promised with birth.

Stunned's more
the word.

I woo, or try,
disturb the universe
into my corner.

Years doing that.

I am rendered as
is fat on hot iron
rendered from
solidity to grease.

Fluidity a relief of sorts.

I am sorted.

Of that I am sure.


Dear Incomprehension,

Not much going on here.

Rash continues as does moon's
waxing-waning in stages but
lunar condition of returns and
departures upon my ravaged
surface impinges my days and nights.

I guage.

I manage,

skin tides,

write on,

hoping for one more
freeze which may crack more
limbs than rot.

Rime ice is desolation in the plot.1

Flower mouth,
stamen tongue,
frozen drift,

large crow over
last year's flower
bed, bemused,

favorite color's
maize without
nuance,

from back
of throat it
sounds,
disturbs.



Root reach,

clot cling.

Old Scratch,

Black wing.


***

1 A riff on a line by Alan Tate, from his poem "Ode To The Confederate Dead"