a congealed filigree
a monochrome mandala
all sage and silken crumbles
shivering on the roadside
a confused candlewick
a snail trail sonogram, its
embroidered ecru edges
ebbing in the breeze
swaying shreds sashaying
all the birds above
tumbling in the trees
black towels in a dryer and
the traffic rushing past,
bees flying drunk, droning,
exuberant through the green sun
slicked walls of a leaning meadow.
Virginia Boudreau is a retired teacher living on the south shore of Nova Scotia. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a wide variety of international literary magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Flagler Review, Querty, Second Storey, Metafore, Palette Poetry, and TNQ. New writing will be upcoming in Grain, and The New York Times (Solver’s Column). She is in the process of completing her first poetry manuscript, twenty years later than intended.
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Wonderful deconstruction.