11 june 2012
The Villanelle’s Window
The German tavern made of timber, stacked logs.
Heavy against the sky, seated on long grass.
And an old stone. Between the stable and the pier
the cypress tree like a mother pulling up her hair.
You hear the knocking of three quatrains
against caesurae, their cadence an echo
of some fable told two hundred years ago.
A washcart falls on its side in the rain, three wheels
unbuckling, thick oak tumbling in big thuds
storm’s velveteen curtain east of the ridge.
Two barristers hold their coffee close to the face
leaning against the maypole, ribbons wet down
thin like another old willow, its shivery shadow.
The boy and girl exchange small, handmade letters
one sealed with candle wax and a thumbprint.
The other folded in with blue flax and dried myrtle.
“Wildflowers are hardy, simple. Little to look at.”
He looked out into the lake, then back to the pier.
Beneath their feet, a lavender spread of harebells.
* This poem was first anthologized in "Writings from the Heart: Stories and Poems from Around the World".
30 may 2025
wiesiek
29 may 2025
wiesiek
28 may 2025
wiesiek
27 may 2025
wiesiek
25 may 2025
wiesiek
24 may 2025
wiesiek
20 may 2025
wiesiek
13 may 2025
marka
13 may 2025
marka
13 may 2025
wiesiek