In an ash urn
the velvet bodies of bees adjourn.
Cold heat in a fern.
How long can a star like that burn?
All that’s left is fur.
Sweet green spears spur.
Pussy willows purr.
Dandelions defer.
There’s a garden hose in her mink.
The daffodils on her gown stink.
Piss is the rain they drink.
She says so with a blink.
Morse code is an ugly toad.
Butterfly in chrysalis mode.
Turtle in the road.
Love’s pitiless goad.
Night’s…night’s oars row.
Morning tied with a pink bow.
The bee glen quieted in snow.
Fresh red nail polish on a toe.
Gloria Zook, 1929-2011
This article appears in August 2011.
