Author: miguel

In March the

tulips and the daffodils are

fragile little colored bells, so you

must bend your knees down to the dirt

to listen closely when they ring because

their papery petals only sing in voices

soft and light

as blossoms falling.

You hear so

little when you stand above them

looking down, though from your great height

you love the flaxen yellow and the white and

the sight of the green blades that burrow up

through mounds of sodden leaves that

look like sheaves

of rusted metal.

Bend down then

and listen. Crawl up close and simply listen.

In April when the bells have shrunken into little

fists, and petals tumble on the ground like your

lover’s dress and stockings strewn around the bedroom

floor, you might hear the rustle of November

leaves and songs

of snowflakes falling.

© 2004 J.M. Keating

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here

to bless the falling snow.

Let it bury us and all our cares and pains and bury

every one of our wishes and preoccupations, especially

the ones we think are most important.

Let it, which neither scorns nor loves, but falls

on all our lives with the same indifferent silence,

inter our pasts and bury every one of our dreams as well.

We pray you, blessed snow, to leave bare spots

beneath the apple trees for winter birds to peck for

seeds, but otherwise, please blanket our incessant

chatter beneath the frigid benediction of your

whiteness so we can pull up the covers of our beds

and burrow even deeper into sleep like hibernating bats

and bears and not emerge until the ides of March

and maybe not until the ides of May.

© 2012 J.M. Keating

All day long on

a long day’s journey

south to Cartagena,

through lonely hills

and empty roads

and sheets of April rain,

I thought about your hands,

the ones you fear

look just like a man’s.

And wondered if you knew

that in my eyes your

hands are wings, your

hands are lips.

and sometimes flames

and sometimes roots

with ten white stalks that

burrow through the sleeping

earth in search of light.

All night long a

black wind slammed

against the house in

which I slept and threads

of rain the color of slate

hissed against the window

near my bed.

In the morning

in clear blue light

I rose from dreams

of thorns and snow,

to see pink jasmine bloom

outside the window,

to hear the songs of birds

in the throats of hyacinths,

and feel the petals tumble

from my own mouth

like prayers,

into your hands.

© 2012 J.M. Keating