Landscape with Poet


On that rare day
when everything is at rest
in the placid landscape
of Monet,
or Cole, or even Turner,
I will walk in shadows
of purple, and vermilion,
pulling cool from my surroundings
to ease my fever.

I will walk,
silent as a silhouette,
or the shadow of my own tombstone,
saving my voice
to whisper of love
in the tender folds
between her ear and shoulder.

I will share of my self,
in verse, or strophe,
telegrams from one soul to another,
coming in succession
like the keys of my heart's organ
played by hurricane winds.

Solitary trees will bend,
seeking solace in neighbors,
humming airily to each other.
sheep will raise shaggy heads,
Orpheus himself will sound
harmonics in the upper scales,
and my life will entwine
with another, in bonds
sure as chemical connection.

And my words;
my power, my praise, my curse -
will lift to the heavens,
bury deep into truth,
and score themselves
into the world around us.
There will be new life,
else there will be nothing at all.

©2014 Christopher Reilley

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