Slow on dormant
Short day
And soil
Chilled stasis,
Yet latched
To the axis
Of the earth
That will
With solstice turn,
Unwind with light
And spiral out,
First shoot,
Then leaf,
Then the flower’s magnitude,
Until
In swelling apex
And full, green flush
Of potential’s plumpness,
All the tangible world
Expresses its ripeness
And rests gladly
In energy’s hands.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
From the ragged beauty
Of the season,
Genetics speculate
A hope
In rose flower,
Half crippled,
Half pert lip
Of summer love,
Sent to test
The possibility
Of love’s emergence
And early awakening
To the surge of imminent spring.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Last years
Sodden relic
Browns in decrepitude
And skeletal memory.
Next years
Tightly packed,
Protected shoot
Waits in green expectancy.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
Swathe of
Bracken brown
Entanglement
Stitched through
With Bramble.
A burr enmeshed,
Stalks
In camouflaged web
Lie limp,
Draped seasonal.
A winter tree,
Like a thistle head
Hooking
Loose threads
And dry tendril.
Ground-sink
Draws matter
In degraded death
To fall soil-ward
In depth autumnal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Clouds,
Gale grey
And hasty
Full of
Wind-thrift
And mischief,
Steal leaves
And flick
Them
Rotational
And tumbling,
Gimballed on gust
And inconsistency
Tremulous in the trees
Bare branch
And sway
And creak
And core wood
Straining in root-sap
Xylem tendons,
Dormant and slow
But rope strong,
Green strong
Foundation
To the earth’s
Sound clag
And sucking
Cohesive force
To hold the winter
Skeletal
And disrobed,
And canvas blank
For next year’s newness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Perfection
In light’s revelation,
In the leaves’
Dying pyre,
In their fall
To the sodden ground
Or in the river’s
Swift transition.
Perfection
In the tree trunk,
In its conforming shape
Wound around
The order of being:
Beauty in naturalness
And spontaneities arrival
In art’s perfect work.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© image Ann Truesdale, 2015
Jasmine,
Brought in from the cold
Stirs sexual
In subtle flowers’
Glowing filaments.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Winter jasmine
Impossible on the branch,
Juxtaposes against
The season’s hour,
Flowers in contrast
And yellow distinction.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
If nothing else
Then coffee’s
Bitter roast warmth
And bite back,
To light
The cold night
And cold morn,
And twang it
To a bit-better
Vibrational resonance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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