My poems come like angels’ visits
—few and far between, leaving my head
aching like a first frost.
But this could hardly interest you,
who sleep like a bulb beneath warming soil,
an iris of complex awakening.
Your face
is a room in early April, skirted
furniture and crewel embroidery, & behind your eyes
the knick-knacks children love to ogle
when they visit an aging aunt
always just returning from her travels.
Yesterday in the car we drove fast and sang,
the green world grew white and windblown
& I told you how I used to want love to come
—like snowflakes falling,
the kind children make in grade school
from folded paper,
no two alike, and no more than two
intact.
Now it seems better
as a field of knee-deep snow beyond the window,
the children cutting silhouettes
for their classroom wall
or bundling up in overcoats
to flap their arms in their own backyards.
Meanwhile, the floor remains covered
with clipped snippets of paper
which the children leave
everywhere they’ve been.
blue shadows fill the corners of your face.
They are the color of the iris just before its petals fall.
Or have it your way—they are like snow angels’ wings.
But for now, or at least until later,
let’s get something straight.
Put your hand on the Oldsmobile’s hood
and tell me: who’s been driving this car?
How did it get so muddy?
& how did these flowers get caught in the grille?