bright dust

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?
Labels: alfonse mucha, galle, georges fouquet, hiroshige ando, Kunisada Utagawa, mary oliver, ohara koson, poetry, rene lalique, silver studio