--because of Paul Cézanne
the paintings tossed into the orchard
wind sharp as branches,
dust and mold drunk on oils,
thick leaves exhaust their greens,
sometimes fruit expires
and then one afternoon,
the artist returns,
harvests her work,
scarred and colorful,
wind injured and wonderful,
takes them inside,
fills empty stomachs.
HERE IS THE CHALLENGE:
Walk through the palace of no return,
spread a thread across the sphere,
break one rule everyday
and open the gate to the kingdom
of hail and large stones.
blue air blue ice blue wind
time enough to avoid the mob scene of shadow.
Grass lifts its face to the sun
Can gladness be murder? What is fun?
A force to wind. A rush to run.
White haired stalks of winter grass:
Michael H. Brownstein