Winter Solitude

WINTER SOLITUDE

Funeral follows funeral ---

the second line between ---

resentment segregates the tombs.

The universe is wrinkled

with the whims and the winds.

Saints cut of silk, frantic like the turf,

wanting terror to touch down,

explore lucid leaves of grass

 evermore,

for the asking

 is nevermore.

The universe is wrinkled

with the whims of mothball hours.

Time.  An old man erect,

folding the canals of his bones.

An old woman, pious,

rigid in her rapture on an urn,

grinning toothless passion.

The universe is wrinkled

with the whims of worried days.

Words copulate not

none the less but more.

Salvation burns

where peace be still

is still to be.

The universe is wrinkled

with the whims of stinging seconds.

Sounds, jazz iced down,

signal the ending

always beginning

time. Sufferings in ascetic hymns

wash.  Absolute soap for the soul.

Primate wings renounce a name.

Yes, seeded clichés. Pungent despair

in the fragrant dust.  Flowers rust.

Gravity marks wasting time.

Jerry W. Ward, Jr.

December 21, 2011