Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 15, 2020

Sonnet #297

The only place the cardinal hides in red
Is when the pomegranate blooms have come in
Those huge dresses burning red and cardinal’s flapping wings

For all the year, he waited for a safe spot screaming red

And for this brief moment in the tree, he has hid,

For all the year and turnings, I have waited for this day

When I could hide inside a the brightness forgotten, unseen, I say

What truth I need, and it drowns in other words and other ways

For this brief moment, I am no one worth to know

A voice among the wilderness, where I, in quiet, pray

To keep these flowers I have gathered here, and what seeds I sow

And when these bright flowers turn to fruit, my hiding will decay

And all my songs will call the wicked hunters to my home

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