City of Legends

The layers within this new work boggle my mind (you  who can’t get a ketchup bottle open without a manual may not see it, but Sophie Tucker said it best…).  It is to my new muse.  Maybe you’ll find out more about her, maybe you won’t.  But it is getting rave reviews on DA.

upon encountering a field of wildflowers

I observe you in an filtered light,
bright it still shines,
but only in the hues
that you choose
to let your unique spectrum
penetrate.

Every photon. Every flash.
And even when the colours clash
there is a harmony like a field
of wildflowers on a distant hill,
breathing sky and light to thrive
even when there is the arrogance
of desolation nearby.

I would inhale your essence.
Eyes closed, to focus my senses
and allow my defenses to lay aside
the grey walls of cynicism and regret
that shuts out the world too often
that I might not soften my heart.

But there is something, je nais se quoi,
that slides past the refracting flaw
that I left unsealed in case.
In case there was still a meadow
full of fireflowers and the grim, dancing petals
made of blossoms that laugh
even in the dark. And because of it.

Blossoms that are beautiful and pure,
in the frame of their intentions,
and that organize their chaos such
that my head swims at their attar.

As it does, as I compose these words
to, in my own, sad and shy way, express
something that falls back to words I forbid
myself to utter, that I might not release
myself from bondage to crack’d hearts
that never bloomed
even in the best tended gardens.

I would touch.
Yes, I would, although I would fear my death,
already drunk on every breath
of your petals. I would touch
with tender disbelief and grief
that I had not found evidence
of a truth I have preached
until now. Here, in these wildflowers
that grew without my will or efforts.

I would taste without doubt, without disgrace,
from face to tapered stems that I find
would bind me as they wind me
in their beauty, as great at every petal
parted to let me worship that a miracle
is possible, indeed. That a single flower
would hold such power is incomprehensible to me.
Yet, how sensible is a field of wildflowers?
How perfect is their chaos and the random
scattering of their bed, fed by the order
of natural things, like a laugh. A tear.
A memory upon which is built the trellis
up the side of a tree that, to me,
I would have never thought to employ.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.