Bucolic (After Heavy Rain)

Ah, this lush life
popping like corks
amid the slo-mo
shimmy of slugs
more legato than Satie.

Now chance conspires
incandescences and doom,
shrieks of green and transient
respites: yet here we are
again wandering our paths

of ruin, squinting at the sun
among the million zithered
serenades of the season,
cast in its mold, like phlox
scrimmed in untimely snows.

Winds crescendo through
the limbs, and what's past
plinks down like chrism
on upturned heads, on all
that's died and yet would bloom.

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Copyright © 2015 Richard Foerster All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission