Half Drunk Muse Poetry


Pale Spring by Janet I. Buck

Canvas of spring,
despite its rutilant bloom,
gathers its palette from memory —
tines of a fork scraping a plate
now empty because you died.
I haven’t the patience for bulbs,
for smoothing soil like
the furled hem of a favorite dress.
On the other side of a fence
a bloodhound scratches in dirt,
dizzy shovels of his paws
mimicking the lost caress.
A breeze blends into silences.

All my efforts lean and fall
as if a symphony has closed—
the roots and dust, a tea bag
strangled by its string.
I purchase pots all prearranged,
plop them on the cedar deck—
wishing your hands would somehow
return to the gaunt world of touch.
Something is gone like love from sex;
the bed is simply cold.
Jaundiced photos in a book
incite me to gamble again.
Both my thumbs are stone.

View bio for Janet I. Buck Published in Summer 2004

About HDM

Half Drunk Muse was one of the first poetry ezines. It was founded in 1999 and ceased publication in 2006.

Questions/comments? Email samiller@halfdrunkmuse.com.