Inside a Catalpas blooms
Yellow runways and silent signals
It was blooming a year ago and I stopped
Late for work at the cemetery
Stopped for coffee
Instead of digging a grave
Wound up blabbering to someone
About its slender beans
And it’s prehistoric shape
And again
Just yesterday
Running the weed whip between stones
A senseless doom returned
In a dreams recollection of planting portulacas
In the empty church yard between
Brambles and debris of moss-rose between
Hear its chimes across the grounds
Wasted space with the dead
A religious relics
Now only weeds press up and unlock the mausoleum
Love for summer gone with the blooms
All together Purslane and white Catalpa blooms simulated between the graves of
Strangers
Maybe the wind as well
Lovely.
When the poets stop singing,
hell wins.
wonderful poem