You are to me,
A stolen relic,
Old poster; of faded features.
I remember when you were,
New and nubile,
Tempera under glass,
Spruce lime upon blue lily,
Colors darkening in light, lightening in dark,
Purposeful magic;
Your art.Until, I held you under the rain,
One day.
Thunderstorm, cotton sun,
All live things, shades of dead grey,
Black grass, burnt smell,
Shapes floating away as thoughts,
Sharp lines; blur,
Those melting faces, a dance of emotion,
All under the rain.Clouds above, clouds below,
As slanting shadows, as aged snow,
This time, that time; your
Genius of holding,
A dim moment; potted plant,
Is now, and forever, sown,
In me, in them,
A rainforest of a single kind,
Your kind.In us, you; faulted pioneer,
Shall find,
The fruits of your labor.
THE HUMAN ANVIL 