JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

What life has is the flower

without  the field

the blossom without the bees

the leaves without the trees?

 

I think of what Wordsworth did to the daffodils

and gasp at dried grasses in elegant vases on sills

 

The artist’s brush leaps to the exuberance of spring

the poet sighs and sobs with the wind

the composer’s notes sing with the birds

all brought down to canvas, to paper,

to shellac and vinyl and spinning discs

and posterity, ah posterity so sweet.

 

Taken out of context

Nature becomes a sonnet, a sonata,

a museum piece

pedastled in polished adoration

beauty lives on by losing life.