What if Wednesdays came before Mondays?
Or Tuesdays after Saturdays?
Would February have two days more
if placed between August and July?
And who would complain if the sun
went around the earth
instead of standing still?
I am tired of lingering over
too many unquestioning sunsets,
poles and morning stars that rise
at some appointed time or place,
and rivers that insist
on running to the sea.
I want the summer where the fall should be,
the sun stopped short as if it brought to mind
some winter or uncertain spring it left behind.
Let me have the savor of strangeness:
peacocks and watermelons and oranges and spring,
giraffes spread out on spindly legs,
a sudden Africa sprung out and rising
like a sudden continent out of the sea,
brimming with amethyst, topaz, amber,
brilliance sharp and stinging as an uncut stone;
broadleaf, evergreen, untroughed waters
plunging upwards to be caught
into a sudden white and crystal yearning,
bursting here and there like morning
flecked with rust and green;
the spring and autumn tossed like leaves
into a crisply seasoned salad of our days,
the unchilled winter's sparkling flare
like a brandied raisin's ember,
and spread across the mouth the August tang
of rind peeled back from off the fruit,
and summer falling into slices
into October's bowl.
How I would give this day
for the uncertain lingering of an afternoon
that never ends, a Thursday
skipping across September's ripples
like a stone flung gently out
across the water's edge...
The captured breath,
oranges and hands, a snowfall in July,
a whirl of leaves caught headlong
in a February gust, and morning
melting into stars - all the world
turned upside down into a spinning,
clear, magnificent madness
risen from this Magellan heart.