Echoes of an Ode Man

In the dying of a tree
grows the flower,
nestled in gnarled bark -
The birds pip and pip and tweet,
but their song is as aside,
as an alley pass in moonlit dark -
When April comes and soles
lay out upturned to sun and sky
and prancing heart,
I will be gone;
The crabby fingers of this
place still grabbing round
some sense of apple in my throat -
I will look away now
and stand apart,
some time to gaze where triangles meet
to balance up the stars -
As ice chrysalis and hoarfrost
lock round the ivy trails of my heart,
I will sit within a cave of silence,
the sweet breath of soundless air
lapping in my space,
and see your smile,
see you take your joy
between your hands
and know your ache is far and gone
and hold within you plenty.