Gerry Boyd

murmurs from a perfect afternoon

i. drifting into that hermetic seal

the picket fence stands proudly unwashed

in the three trunk hemlock afternoon:

it is all held together by wispy cables

and the dreamy embroidery of soapy eyelets-

those painted threads of yellow, green, and rust

that are all inside a glassed-washed afternoon:

the clearing fog of then and now and when.

a tempting little drip will propel the suspect elders

to wander into the white promise of the warping slats.

ii. the trifurcation is an amusement that briefly matters

she dances in the chartreuse lemon spring,

is the green summer of our frothing joy-

she flutters again in orange leaves,

that, saintly, burst and burn in autumn:

ironic words of appreciation always seem to fail

in a way that is pervasive and, oddly, geometric

on the tear-stained Appian Way of patio pavers:

there are many things that cease to matter

in the Euclidian formulae of wind-swept leaves.

yet, we try, and try again, to simply find the point.

iii. back to the idle rust of dropping cones

each shadowy dot of near and distant leaves

is bartered by the tricky once-washed slats,

traded for a moment that waves good-bye, well met:

saplings proudly foil the coniferous quivering-

the compost can, always, existentially blue,

a calming retreat from the obscenity of now

that is telegraphed by this obstinate relic-

boasting of a clarity almost reached

if, indeed, it was reachable at all.

the rest just freezes,

impotent in the set of choices and meanings-

what is the course beyond the fence?

through the unwashed slats there is only:

the soothing green of the distance mown,

the windy rhythm of dappled seed,

the promise of pale berries, lush and sown.