MORNING GLORIES—skyview (Ipomoea purpurea) [ click photo for next . . . ]
On the road in the Northwest of America.

There is a flower

that does not fade,

it’s not in heaven,

not made of jade;

It’s a flower

which roots in love,

with rainbow petals

in the sky above.


strophe: an order of movement which articulates
itself into stanzas—or groupings or clusters—of
an irregular number of lines of irregular length;
alternatively, in the original Greek meaning,
a complementary back and forth between the
two sides of an orchestra.

katastrophe: the conflicting orders of movement
of degenerative chaos and disaster; alternatively,
in the original Greek meaning, “the return to a
point of rest and axial equilibrium of a lyre string
after it has ceased to vibrate,” and is, therefore,
once again in a state of neutrality.


A spray of amethyst,
more texture than flower.

When one finally sees it, one

“Why hadn’t he seen this before?”

An unvoiced purple whisper trailing along
the deep greens of a well-kept path, looking
for signs,

“Which way could she have gone?”

Is it possible that even this tracery of joy must
wither and let go, finding no solace

in the irregular breath and tumble
of the coming winds?


Sharp-toothed calyx,
the sheath which protects
the ripening petal’s rosy pink.

Which flower might
open today?

To what heavenly bodies
might it align itself?

The cattails do not seem
to ask, but stand their ground,
tall, straight, erect blades.


Continuous blessing,
feet moving lightly, swiftly,
over soft, yielding earth,

skin of soles reading
texture like eyes touching

the storylines seen in the bark
of many trees.

The simple thought of something sharp,
painful, these possible futures hidden
in the hard brown of dried grass.

Oh so careful child...
Don’t let it take away this joy.


4 or 5 digits—the splayed fingers
of an outstretched hand,
driven to the peripherique of tightly
cropped, well-fed urban meadows . . .
How the violets, moss and yellow flowers
of spring wish to return, showing us
that someone has given up all the fighting
and let their hair go wild again, gestures
shaped, even if ever so slightly,
by much sun, sparse rain, and the curious,
fickle ways of a prairie wind.

| download LOVE GRASS—a quartet of poems [mp3 1.5 Mb]

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All Photographs & texts by Cliff Crego © 2013
(created: IV.28.2013)