​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.


© M. G. Iannucci 2016

18 thoughts on “Cultivation

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