This Palm, This Ax, This Feather Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This Palm, This Ax, This Feather



Following the rains,
Aspen rise as knitted smoke,
A caroling sorority up on
Their elevated saddle.
Lakes engorged in the nests,
Platypuses lather and slap-
Blue mountain lions swat at
Fish in the plumped,
Excitable river:
She lays in the woodchips.
Smell her-
Her chest is on fire,
Her eyes the kindling embers:
Oh, she is sweet lumber.
I must use her to build a house,
The cumulus caracoles the
Summit,
Hiding it for awhile,
Her areolas ripple;
They just shimmer for awhile,
Siamese penumbras of a hidden sphere,
Swaying in their naked crèche,
And her knees lay crossed like
Firs bent from dampened pleasure,
Like opal hinges for playthings
Displayed by the most modern pioneers.
She has crushed the wildflowers
With her sweet timber,
But they are not complaining,
But kiss along one side her,
As I kiss the other;
Her winds moan their moist weathers,
And verily she reveals her natures,
Christened by this palm,
This ax, this feather.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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