Renaissance
The sunflower blooms where the buried calf sleeps; Where the winter child sorrowed, the silver lace creeps. Quick hearts that ignited in Aprils of yore, Sleep numb in the darkness and quicken no more. Windflower, crocus, hibiscus, and lily, Thrust you up, laugh you up, dazzle death silly. The fields are a carpet of scattering stars; The bees in the oak trees are strumming guitars. Petal-silk violets, fragrant and cream, Enshadowed by granite, within the eye gleam. Feral brown foxes trot out of their lairs, From towers and dungeons, the poets - from theirs. The furred, and the furless will mate in the glade; The fox with his vixen; the poet with maid. Ensnared by the look in their whirli-gig eyes, The vixen's, the virgin's will whimpers and dies. To cozen his vixen, the fox paws will fly; To couch the young maiden, the poet will lie. Yet better the green ruse that is, than is not, For we are live poets, dead poets begot. Let sailing Diana renew us with light, To the madrigal strains of a renaissance night. The sunflower blooms where the buried calf sleeps; Where the winter child sorrowed, the April vine creeps. Written November 6th, 2001 © on Nov 06 2001 08:38 AM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 5
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"The sunflower blooms where the buried calf sleeps;..."