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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Art Of Chrysanthemums


 

 

We swing like silk or snow

   swept over mesa flats.

 

Though in the pith of fall,

   leaves twitch red

through the eddy, at eventide.

 

We sit long-sleeved in a river house

   mull over music,

that warms

   ice creatures.

 

Today I raked a melody

   with syllables culled from your lips.

But I miss you when you gather

 

   chrysanthemums each morning;

and on return,

   float their painted tongues

in glass bowls.

 

Chrysanthemums round patio light

   remind me of our first autumn,

when you held my glove

   in the Venus noon.

 

Darling. This garden is art, verged on the obsessive

   but I heed the artistry in your labors,

I hold them dear, their desires unafraid to conjure wings

   that they may conjure flight.

 

Upon twisting your wrist, caught

   in the spindrift of creation,

you could no longer heave soil to stack.

 

I tended fresh earth in delicious seclusion,

   and laced your pond with chrysanthemum gold.

 

So come! Meet me under ribboned white

   where autumn hovers, and the sun sidles near-

as the murmurs of our harmonies hold.

 

                                         - Robert Karaszi