The Colored Earth

First sprout of white asparagus
And Falls's teakwood is a sublime

Miracle formed from the voweled opulence
Of a contessa's strut, or blown to a regatta's

Silver train of thunderous masts, thunder
Under the youthful juniper of brush and

Foliage as Winter is next to wrap its ivory knife,
Darken the grain in blood and swear

All paths will meet at the heart. But for an
Instant, let the colored earth

Of plush lilies and throats hang from
Intractable tongues, beat the ground

For a last meal, a last wheel at the machine
Working its greenery. To what chaste does

Silence makes pure. Damn the setting void
Who knows? Tomorrow may be as sweet.

This Much Love

Sunrise's sunset's light can be sung
By a choir's inspired voice
Its verger of sound carried as high
As the jetty of steeple or ridge,
But it is the listener's measured empathy
Of thought to masterpiece, indeterminacy,
And affections that hazard its intention,
Like an atom; smallest chemistry in unity
Trapped in the eye, taken as moon or sun
The heavy roll of thunder echoes in each
Footfall as love masters its reflection
In cello at sunrise, octave at sunset,
Adjusts chord and tempo and range
Determines this much is enough.