Picasso's
eye is lodged
in
the sugar maple,
like
a scuttled vessel
brooding
in the limbs.
It
no longer dispenses
late
night wisdom,
early
morning insight,
from
the perch outside my room.
The
all-knowing stare
becomes
reluctant
under
chlorophyll eyelids,
dark
spring rain.
My
psyche's new caretaker
scries
wet kisses in leaves,
with
flop of roses,
gentle
thrust of trees.
tk/March 2015
Sumptuous read by R.A.D. ...
