Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Sonnet #134

There is a song in the garden we do not hear
Of cells dividing and pollen landing like drums
Of the rustle of the weevil and the dew dropping tears
The drum and drum and rippling drum of all that becomes
The vibrations of the earth, the tiniest juggles 
Are moving, cells dividing, ripping through cells
And minute hungry creatures chew and struggle
The songbirds whose huge shouts echo like bells
The whistling wind cut to ribbons in the grass
The click of the anole scales and claws upon the stones
The weight of the sun, the weight of the rain, the frass
that tumbles from the dying squash vine's broken bones
There is a song we cannot hear -- We know there's music
Because we see the beauty of the dancing world majestic

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