Mimosa, Yellow Fragrant Tree, blooming in January
Oh my January butterfly;
yellow bloom caresses
aroused tip of a golden dawn light–
your paper wings tremble
over fragrant pitched trees shimmer
caught on an oil canvas,
and your words dive
Steven Kenny The Butterfly _ninto the opiate ink of the sweet mimosa yellow sun….

Oh, my yellow bud butterfly
I see hidden in the yellow yarrow bosoms tempera fields,
squared jade suit following ghastly
your flaming flutter wavy hunts to nectar mellow….
Butterfly Trapped in Amberaerosol sprayed pine air-freshener
paints tall cypresses breeze glowing dimmer,
oh, my yellow memory arrow,
I lost you
on the sapping scaled tree skin resin
and now you are trapped in the amber coffin blob
yellowing yellow amber early pollen wind;
Aber resine dropsnow gasping frozen secret
drowned in the camphor selfless sphinx
–engraved in a liver agony–
and turning bitter spilled spleen
into a lemon drop face of an endless, savor sea

 

 

 

Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.

……

Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other—
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.” T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding (http://allspirit.co.uk/gidding.html)

http://youtu.be/91B9lOG8It8

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