Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Poem 7


The tree sneezes
and orifices we
hardly noticed
shoot out
white blossoms
each a carefully spun
bundle of tissue
or fresh napkin in a twist
in clusters like a clutch
of balloons

It is catching
and the tree next door
can't hold it in
one moment it is bare
branches of bark like fingers
unmarried unpromised
then -Achoo!-
it wears rings of tussled clouds
white handkerchiefs
collapsed kites
and passes on its spring

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