Equator
In far Arctic and Antarctic
ice people are confused by flowers
as Dutch are driven mad by tulips.
They live in greenhouses
against the cold,
insolent in ships and machines,
in dikes against the sea,
in work and symbols.
In tropics isometric in night and day
rose is the flesh of universal scent
in motion among leaves and thorns,
repeating over and over.
No frost kills. No Spring brings to life.
Flowers balloon like piñatas,
aching with skeletons poised
to dance on air.
So is woman replete in her own orbit,
so is man the dotted line of death and regression.
When you see the bones of a poem
you see how it moves. You see its seasons
and place under the sun and one day
you uncover your own diagram
in every breath between.
[EAC copyright 2010]
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