No Clock in the Forest.
--As You Like It
Come put a face to the name, Terror. And if there's any grace left, it's terra. Know you through the orange berries of creeping bittersweet. Or twining worries, woods end in wild grape, poison ivy, and woodbine, birch saplings taut as bows, recurved by vine. Grace, Terror, time to split the difference, change verb tense, shift the seed, revel in fence. Best-case scenario, I'm first to pass, urn spilling over peonies, foxgloves, crabgrass. Bring morning glory mourning's story, Jack's pulpit cups, stamen's golden fury, your aphids, vespids, narrative retreads. Come, Terror, with overwatered flowerbeds scattering dropped petals. Those fat grubs, loaded spores. Panicked rose, potted beetles, eroded root tags and graceless bees. Your face the same old clock, obscured by sun, concealed by rain.
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|Author:||Hennessy, John (American poet)|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2016|
|Next Article:||February Thaw.|