Cultivation

​Palms and knees 

Grinding pebbles down,

Like the glacier 

That crawled here before me.

.
Dewy stems slip through my hands,

Like the thoughts that I fail to grasp.

Sunlight on the water’s surface,

Casts its reflection in my eyes.

.
Clouds languidly scrape the overlook

Which gazes down at me with a scowl, 

And the lazy bees in the raspberry patch are drunk,

With the sweet liquor from berries.

.
My heart sways to their dissonant hum,

Like turbidity, turbulence, and you,

The whisper current that rises to a roar in my heart,

Unsettled as rye plumes in the wind.

.
Soil under my nails, clots of mud on the stoop,

Must a poet eternally yearn for the unattainable,

Those scraps of notes tumbling in the wind?

My life is a metaphor for itself.

.

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© M. G. Iannucci 2016

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