Prolepsis

Melodious liquid warble in the fruit of the plum-tree

Tree tells the sinking year by what means to feel

Its recession into grief as if a thorn

Pok a nester in an of advanced age wounded heart

Of stone from which slowly drips recognition

All breathing human passion far above

These days atonal as white noise

Through bare branches cotton collection of vapors drift by

Last yellowed leaves catch retired rays of sun

Going down into the motherless ocean

A light plane buzze not on toward brown hills

As shade globules over the next urban plat

To prepare the air for what the dead don't know

How swiftly we are coming to join them

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Nov/Dec 1997

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