Greg Kuzma


Would that each season keep its appointments.
Is the day possible? Yes,
and the night follows fast in the pea gardens.
And the flowers have learned to regard
darkness as more of a favor,
closing their wan mouths.

How graciously the sky stays put,
almost as if, could we go there,
the helpers have cleared the tables,
filming each surface with wax,
and not one color out of place,
or too intense.

Would that each color achieve some permanence,
in shape, in bristle or stalk,
in petal draped with sunlight or rain wet.
Would that the earth remain itself,
and glisten in its ripe completion.

Tonight I walked out through the valley
and over the mountain to trumpets
ablare in the grass, to bees
in their scurry among bright faces of flowers,
or on their long ways back with honey.