We bring our handsome spouse to a party
in the afternoon lights
where the trees talk of winter
and young girls photosynthesize the talk.
Most of the guests find us dull,
and we comply. There is little to say
to winter. The girls
bring their trees to talk. The other adults,
who find it difficult to love,
we cannot win over.
Like honesty with oneself in the face
of a system
or a vacation of trees comingling in party light
just the other side of winter,
we cannot look away
from the guest who wears a greave
to show the party the idea of danger.
The honesty of today’s world
we must accept
what others want. What other’s face
we know we should not look away from
the winter half-light, so we touch
our drinks and calculate.
The trees pace among the party math
wearing elegant winter as a dress, each one.
The girls move like one actress
at different parties, of a single system,
or a childhood friend
we cannot hear. What are they saying,
the winters? I set my tongue
to honesty, you wear a dress of trees,
you photosynthesize
or I do. The girls are nowhere to be heard.
We cannot listen to the party,
we are in it. And we’ll never remember:
What winter? What party?
Might we be the girls in adult disguise?
Well, winter, we’ll never know
what others think of us
at this party. That is the danger. The lights dim
or change into brighter greaves.
Who’s winter is this anyway?
Our spouse returns with napkins and sliced pears,
the future approaches,
the death of Meaning, or the beginning,
and the light finds refuge
in our heads. We listen to music
of the current era,
and winter says our names, or the trees do:
they are of a piece
anyone might find it difficult
to love.
Our quite handsome spouse napkins a lip
as if naming the first light of winter.
What is the future of love to young girls?
How do vacations speak?
The first time slipping away is spectacular,
but nothing photosynthesizes winter,
and, well, who are we to blame.
The God inside of you, the system itself
may decide in favor of, or against, the idea.
You cannot change winter.
The girls are cold and fixed like their names.
At least honesty goes on vacations
and the party dissembles winter with light.
The trees don’t dance but they might later.
We dream of the ocean, the sand,
as if never to leave the party.
