water Washed

John Sierpinski

The water washed white stones
The curve of dark trees
The ticking of the clock…

The hibiscus flowers, the turn
Of the crock, cucumbers,
The Russian sage, the Chinese yew

We drank together in Oakland
We nearly died in Guadalajara
We walked in Peru

We have spent in spades
Away the red-winged blackbird
Knew.  The séance of approaching

Night, the dying day, the promises
Of dreams that praise as a flower
In the dessert rings, a burst of color

The promise forgotten, the dark
Daze.  “Here’s to the children,”
I raise a stout ale, “Here’s to the

Birds and oblivion, here’s to
Waking up when least expected”
The swinging of the pendulum

The movement of the sun
You are leaving
You are fading away

I want an ecstatic dream
Not just pollen and despair
I will run, again, you will

Run toward me, too,
There will be the smell
of clover in the air