Flor

In the murky silence of the closed house
the flowers slowly die with no one to change the water.
I like to thonk of them talking in these last days,
in their ancient perfume-voices, these most independent
creaturesof the earth, more so the wild flowers
in the brightest coats, speaking softly in he semi-darkness,
philosophing or romanticizing the imminent death.

I would like to be old, lying on the sofa, listening
to their scent-speech, doing my own waiting.





Poema d'Sparrow in the Baker's Dust,de Leroy Cardwell