Midnight Flowers

(thanks Eavan Boland)

I hate the word poetry like Religion,
some category of impalpable starlight
that grips the soul unpredictably
squeezes emotion to faint tears
and has to be, regrettably, named.

I would name it as the inner vibe
of petals turned inwards, into the secret
chamber of personalized rain.
The voice of God whispering fondly
when flowers and dreams wilt
indifferently to my pain.

Advertisements

About this entry