“Overcast”
Overcast, spring gardens
imagining temperance, in autumn
blossoms rainfall to olive
Orchards amidst orchids,
go running off horses
because morning’s ocean;
Sewn of dew,
this mist coalescing
like milk frothing,
Time in memory
floats so airily,
as spores of cotton
Carried, if woolly
alder aphids
in your absence,
My benediction,
is a hymnal
and not reflection,
Trees of memory,
branches and thicket
shimmer wind chimes,
Reaching their fingers
up into heaven
until the end of time,
For grey becomes rain,
maybe the sky’s forever
indebted to yesterday,
Nameless and poor of proof
apart your existence,
as if moons adrift, antipodean;
Washing machine breathes,
yawns a song at dawn,
pattering raindrops fall on
Hued, glowing blurs
spruce, aegean blue,
robin egg seep through,
Buster Keaton simpers on
a screen behind me,
yesterday’s memories are alive inside me;
Everyone seems—still
asleep, yet this stillness
feels like a dream,
Inside their shadow,
Saturday birthed saturnine
through incense and candles,
Sunshower’s windrose,
with freedom echoes
a canter of raining flowers
Tapping against window,
my breathe exfoliates
residue from coldness,
Within remains,
and remnants
of russet;
Topaz and umber rings
staining porcelain, as
coffee steams warmly
It’s as if,
you were right
there beside me;
My alter littered in curio,
sky of mercurial stone
language is a mirror to my soul,
Wanting that cabal,
and opal eyes
to disrobe my clothes,
Everyday is a daydream
unaging as sunless morning,
raining if-endlessly besotted,
It’s like, falling in love
again, yet without anyone
except this solipsism;
As glass overcast overtakes horizon,
stainless alabaster moonlights
slivers of quicksilver,
Colorless sky—steel and graphite,
castle of turquoise twilight
built from a periphery of cobblestone;
It’s like, I need to start
running, but don’t have
anywhere to go.
© 2024, A. M. D’Angelo
