White Piano
Rising rancor of all night waves
through the hotel’s window
and we kept that tangled sound
like the gathering of salt
in hurt hands for so many times
we had used the cold sea
of language to unfragile
our marriage, to wound it,
to rip the solemnity of love—
white piano of doubt, what no pale
pleasure or shield
of labor could bear away;
and yet we walked
from the dismantled bed,
through that open
door like a mirror,
wiping each other’s names
from our lips, returning
to the secret springs
of the earth where the snowy
irises of the spattered
forest released their tousled
scent hour by hour,
and we took anchor there
in the hard ground,
trusting the threads
of wisdom’s intelligence
would stir invisibly
among the confused shadows,
transforming us into a pair of gold seedlings
or concealed cistern of wild stone.
Orpheus
He walks down the hill alone
away from me, with his bike
slung over his right shoulder
like a silver lyre, this man
who will pedal the eighteen miles
to the factory where he will mix
barley and hops and yeast
and water and watch as the alchemy
of beer cooks and the steam
rises out over the sunflower fields
and back pastures of the air force
town wishing he was on those wheels
again coming back through
the beneficence of buckeyes,
their flowery scent catching in his hair,
his sweat alive with the memory
of morning when we were
awakened by the same pure songbird
in the far canyon, the one hidden
we have yet to name, but
there steady as sunlight
and mist as we sidle up face to face
and our sleepy eyes open
as if we were the only dependable gods
on earth lending
our entire breath to the day.
The Tea Roses
From the rubble heap of drought
they hasten forth as if ceasing to mourn--
tight clusters of fireworks
delighted by the earth’s
languishment and the small
rustling animals like the squirrels
acorn-driven, scurrying
up the black oaks, captured by
the bite and regnancy of winter.
Some things prefer surprise
as do these blooms that deny
the steady fatuity and dwindling
of seasons for they will not
allow any summer sweetness to elapse,
their faces turning slowly
like coin boxes in a child’s hand
as they see you feeding the sick
and mottled daises—
what an affront to them
as if you, a mortal,
had any real claim in saving
or recreating tenderness or bliss.
LEONORE WILSON lives on her family cattle ranch in Northern California. She has taught at various colleges and universities in the Bay Area. Her poetry has been featured in such magazines as Third Coast, Quarterly West, Nimble Spirit, Pif, Poet and Critic, etc. She has been nominated for four Pushcart Awards.
