What kindling love is this that sanctifies the earth
with memories proliferating like the grave
turning of a second birth? What enterprising arms
disseminate their charms like seeds on fallow fields
to function as a lavish yield for autumn’s harvest?
Suspended on such tensile roots, they bring forth fruits
which thrive on sappy juices of their germinating tree –
if just to nurture offshoots for posterity.
But what use cultivating heartbreak’s fertile soil,
that promises abundance from such husbandry?
Tears scarcely save the desiccated oak, nor does grief
breathe life into a reverie. Then pity us who savor solace
in the eulogies assuring us that death is just a passing.
For with this ever passing hour, when time sits still
and time is never-ending, then this and every passing
is an everlasting death.
About Frank De Canio
