It’s in the vase
you placed
in the hall,
after the night
we heard the twang,
the song
that played
unexpectedly
to our impromptu
bare embraces,
our kisses too fervent
for friends –
a single Apple
Blossom: pink and white,
the Pyrus
Coronaria,
from the state
‘side Tennessee;
it harks back
to munching cattle
in the fields,
to trucks
that dust the sides
of gravel roads,
to a cowbell
calling all
to Sunday lunch.
And now it speaks
in a tongue
we cannot hear,
an ethereal
howdy and drawl,
the unexpected
spell
of strangest days.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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