Quiet Woman

When quiet woman
appears she fills my ears
with morning glories.
Morning glories
grow out of my ears —
big blue trumpets
in those soft canals.

My hearing is better
than a geezer's,
but the dog howls
when the telephone rings.
I cannot answer
with a flower in my ear.
With a flower in my ear,

I hear only wind
and the scuttle of trinkets
she tosses my way:
charms, glimmers, scars,
bits of beforetime
words and, erelong,
worn ones for renewal.

The clichés come
to be redeemed;
the ancients arrive
amain (at full speed),
to be reclaimed, offering
shrift (blessed forgiveness)
and swevens (dreams.)

First published in Green,1988; revised 2024
Homage Travel Stories & Essays | Poems | Contents At-A-Glance