this wind pellucid and fierce
stitching chaos in my mind
atop the green mountain roiling mist
above the churchyard ruin and lore
here I sway longingly my hair a blinding veil
reciting all I remember of Yeats
he speaks to me he pleads with me
Never understand the weeping of the…
for Annick
By the river again, finally
and I hear your voice rapt
in the glimmer of wave
speaking poetry like a
flowing medieval dance
among flower gardens.
One petal at a time descends
into white caps wedged
at the reedy edge until
whole faces of dahlia
dizzy themselves in
cool shade pools,
mesmerizing me in
swirling…
I walk alongside the Columbia
to be reminded of
non-negotiable truths.
Although life appears to
flow in one direction,
it’s cyclic.
The USGS says water spends
10 days in the air after it evaporates
before becoming rain again.
If I stand still long enough
I become a channel —
thought forms…
After Ola Gjeilo’s The Lake Isle
Your bright
soundscapes
generate
a remedy
for uninspired
hearts.
Blest by vespers
the restive muse
rustles
in willowy
crescendos of
your song.
Rhythms flutter.
Imaginings
awaken as
melodies collide
in manifold
climaxes.
Every note
a salvific
breath
transcending
pandemic
grief.
Marie Marchand 2022