Monday, April 5, 2010
April Fool’s, but really
There is a corpse in the fencerow,
Where he crawled, one would imagine,
To escape the battlefield.
Angled under the tangled
Thicket of honeysuckle and briars,
Eyes glaucous, wide open, empty, staring
At the blank, overcast sky.
Frost bit the hillside hard
And hit the newly-opened peach buds
Such a gnash they loosed at dawn and fell, pink, slowly -
Darker mirrored in the dead man’s eye.
The proud will not endure -
they’re like dream on a spring night.
The mighty fall -
Like petals on frost.