Earl Pascoe,
Birds of Paradise
Our garden, for perfection, needs just one
Lost shade before it blossoms fully glad –
But can this hue, by our now orphaned sun,
Return to light and life be wholly clad?
The purple of the mountains in pink haze,
The swaying mauves and yellows of the plain,
The green reach, blue of sky, and sundown’s blaze
Run fugitive before their right domain.
This absent tone is felt in music too –
A missing smell is left untouched, the taste
Of fragrant berries, thyme and what we knew
Before this orphaned time has been replaced
By insufficiencies and irksome loss,
When everything that shines is ghost and gloss.
Our garden, for perfection, needs just one
Lost shade before it blossoms fully glad –
But can this hue, by our now orphaned sun,
Return to light and life be wholly clad?
The purple of the mountains in pink haze,
The swaying mauves and yellows of the plain,
The green reach, blue of sky, and sundown’s blaze
Run fugitive before their right domain.
This absent tone is felt in music too –
A missing smell is left untouched, the taste
Of fragrant berries, thyme and what we knew
Before this orphaned time has been replaced
By insufficiencies and irksome loss,
When everything that shines is ghost and gloss.
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