Saturday, December 29, 2018

--because of Paul Cézanne 
Well earthed 
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. 

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. 
Early Monday 
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

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...