I have wandered, directionless, in your vicinity

Knowing instinctively that something would rub off

Like pollen on bees or late sunlight from a mysterious direction

 

Your vitreous sphere is blue as the sky

That appears over small fields on a Spring day

And reveals the new lambs, white

 

A gift from an altruistic admirer,

I have seen it ubiquitous in your eyes

You captured it completely, without hesitation

You have it in a good place for now

 

Part of you, it weighs more than you thought

And the blue is darker than you remember

Opening it on its tiny hidden hinges would be too much

The perfect gold would have a broad light

Toppling kingdoms just by its presence

 

I don’t think he gave it to you feeling generous

But blithe and pragmatic, A clock-maker who found

An astonishing indoor plant with a small disease

Never naturalized, too organic,

Nothing to adjust or incrementally time,

It is an honorific to him, he has no duties

He stands now obelisk-like, frozen

Into a incapable semblance of himself

 

Somewhere stars slow sweep slips over the horizon

And takes note of phantoms and peculiarities like this

 

A metal apple fits your palm perfectly

And you would never consider

Although non-functional

Letting it go

 

 

©2017   Donald W. Hayward