While I’m Gone
Now, lilac blossom.
Now the blossom so filled
with the wine dark sea,
takes the weight of so little rainfall
to droop towards such sacred things
as what remains—
small wash down of river pebbles
that tire of being just above
last year’s mulch,
only half decayed,
one dandelion pushed through,
just the one that grows larger
at the speed of the memory of sunlight
day in, day out—
resisting separation,
the wine dark blossom droops,
its edges remain but lose meaning,
bows into the worship
of this, the moment of.
Don’t lift the spray wand
secured to a hose made
of old, such very old tires.
Ignore my previous
and passing supplications
dear and dearest neighbor,
do nothing,
nothing whatsoever
to allow it to be risen
once again—
all things are lifting
even if and as they fall.
Originally from Western Massachusetts, after stints in software and education, Don Pomerantz lives and writes in New York City and the Hudson Valley. His poems have appeared in NY Quarterly, Washington Square, Chautauqua, Consequence, Tar River, Eclectica, Conium Review, Kestrel, SAND, Adirondack Review as well as many other American and international journals. More information at donpomerantz.com.
Amethyst Review 