Everything on the earth bristled,
the bramble pricked
and the green thread nibbled away,
the petal fell,
falling until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
yes, that is
a cookie groundhog
with a chocolate chip face
popping out of a bagel hole
covered in cream cheese snow
sprinkled with smashed up wafer cookie dirt .
in honor of world poetry day (yesterday)
and groundhog day (in february)
and bread and peace. (everyday)
“peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.”
“february, a form
pale-vestured, wildly fair,—
one of the north wind’s daughters,
with icicles in her hair.”
~edgar fawcett, “the masque of months,” c.1878
of course it is a worm family birthday party.
“the poet makes silk dresses out of worms.”