Monday, September 26, 2011

In honor of T S Eliot's birthday, a challenge to respond to the Wasteland. 'April is the cruelest month of all'

Should April be the cruelest month, then
August will do us in, all

the sparks flying of sun off water

igniting the tinder of past loves and losses.

Bright lit corners along the curbs, beneath

the trees shaking every last leaf

of memory down upon us, the whisper

scraping of what once was, the hushing of the now

warm wind, always fortelling the winter

of what might have been.   We curl up

beneath that scorching summer grin, infatuated

with the light and cloudless days only

to find fitful rest between the roots remembering

the green of life above us, in our yore.  Gone

the hyacinth and lilac, gone even now the lillies,

sere.  You are the only vestige of desire.

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