Poet


Give the go-ahead for your heart
to strip naked. The trees
are covered with flowers,
while you vision white petals
flying out of you like
blowing blizzard down the playground,
down a field where weed-flowers
are the tiny palms of hands. You

see their faces that say, "We
are pictures of the sun for no one
but you. Our fathers and mothers
are a single motet, scored
for trillion voices. Come and sing,
be rich. Come, go exactly
half the distance to madness. Touch
our fragrant lips."


Tim Bellows