Amaltas II

I wish that I could be
The heat that saps a thousand blooms;
The powdered earth that breathes
The sun into its lungs.
I wish my days would be
As quick to ignite into fire
As sudden as gold that feeds
This city’s veins and fields.
I wish every summer’s thirst
Meets that moment when first
The bright chandeliers drop their grace
On my grateful face.

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Amaltas: Masks of Summers Past

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The pleasure of daffodils
Worth the words of that couch-lier
Danced springbright until
The light one early evening caught
The shine and glow and fire
Of Amaltas. An empty vase
A mirror, a mask – it’s not
As if reflections on summers past
Cannot be painted and worn. It’s just
That sometimes the pleasure of
The Amaltas
Cannot be borne.

The green and gold bronze
The all seeing eye; rivulets
Of yellow run down the ivory cheek.
Of all the things left behind, I
Carried a face to face the lost things
I would seek. It’s not
As if reflections of Indian summers
Can’t be worn. It’s just that sometimes
The memory of Amaltas
Can’t be borne.

 

(Amaltas is the Indian name for Laburnum)