Today, another walk. Tonight, a different poem.
Reckless fecundity this spherical here
with its fugal loop of falling and fruiting
and its persimmon tree’s jeweled danglings of rubbery flame
and its pregnanted soil so upholsterously greening
the moss tresses draping over
worn gutters racing into
ancient creeks gushing for the
spongéd earth’s guzzling.
The whole scene a blister, haute pression
its elastice the very verge of burst.
The whole seen by eyelidded roofs of shingled browns
like these horses whose manes streak and rust with the spill of rain
and the succulent heifers astroll on the bosky ooze,
silvered nostrilling through this plein-air mysterium.
And here, I must stop before the resilient silence of pliant
row after row after row of crucified pommiers
who grow to yield, seed to cede, stretch to droop,
leaking their burden.
Heavy drops of red eversoak our distended-unquenchable canon.