woodbine twines climb higher
where white fragrant flowers go
one after the other,
we shall follow in our time
franco worked for the flower venders,
a woman or two, maybe three of them
covered head to foot in coats
and scarves and inane chatter
would be partners with who knows,
always changing faces,
girasole toward the sun,
now fond franco hasn’t reappeared
he the simple helper schlepper
down on luck, getting by in fancy time
when he wasn’t drinking and falling down
eye trouble, though money never a factor
not when there is none
comes and goes as he wished, as others wished,
then went home, somewhere south,
i heard the name of the village last year
have forgotten the village but not Franco,
thought he’d return
but winter’s over
and he remains gone as the snow
city life is seasons,
that visit, then change,
while woodbine is curling
life does rearrange
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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2 comments:
This poem flows, starting with the beautiful lines in the first stanza. Wonderful images and sentiment, too. The first two stanzas are my favorites.
"simple helper schlepper"
i like the overall tapping rhythm, Annie. at times it goes one/two, at times irregular. even changing as it does, the beat seems persistent in the words.
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