Living Colour

The ivy bends toward the gray,

Claws at the old brick--

A red siren muffled by the years. 

The dawn holds the stars for so long 

Before it sees the morning drain them from the day;  

 

The first scene is a ground,

Sheets of ice sunk into the flattened grass

And sweeping the pane,

Like a hand melting into spring

Trying to wipe the film of past storms,

But gathering in the corners

New vignettes.  

 

His onlooking gaze never sees

The overturn of clouds or brighter sun.  

 

Shoots of forsythia climb to him,

And cocoons have hatched Monarchs

As the rain fumbles like a brigade

Of fading fingers against the glass;

 

But his eyes, steady as projectors

Flicker as if the end of something is near;

The gold on the pier has tired of holding her;

Her opaque form in the cold gray of seasons;

She disappears in the white flux of sun-spun trees, 

The hem of a curtain falling upon his hand

Like a tired ghost 

Buried in the glare of its own memory.