More Poems by Cecelia
Song for the End of May
More About Cecelia
A step toward loss, no colors.
The glass, the leaves, the branches -- all gray.
These are your words, your few words. It's a diminishment,
a necessary lesson you try
to view as a choice, a humble garden,
an arrangemnt of shades. The butterfly of pleasure
now a moth, an accurate line,
a plane possessing its proper shade.
You look and look, your hand disobeys,
but sometimes the pencil gets it right.
What you need to learn: To get by with less,
to represent in a new way. Represent, as if to catch
the present by evaporating into it. I was here,
say the strokes of graphite.
Your tools are simple
so you will not be distracted
by anything but the stick that is set before you --
the stick and its bent, beautiful shadow.