[This poem begins the third section of B.N.'s Journey Music manuscript]
They may be kinder at a distance, yet
The elements of solemn imagery.
They rise precise, a cast out net.
Here in the instant all the trees agree
To shed at once their pale and thinning leaves.
In winter potted lilies simulate
The summer, now to us they're turning wild
A metaphysics of imagined fate.
If in the middle, the loud ca caw, ca caw
A mild remnant, attendant angels bloom,
Take flight above our heads. Could we say we saw
The whole thing just watching from our room?
We paste stars to the walls in America
As replicas of summer nights we saw.
© to the author 1983-2010