Brad Bostian
What is time
to an orb weaver?
In winter, nothing of the clock.
It spins its fatal
snowflake
Disengaged from time and place.
What is death
to a dog in spring
When dogs run everywhere?
Something of the palate
Like everything else.
What is the
sermon to a bird
At the sanctuary window
When the weather changes
And leaves are coming out?
Resonance, and
only,
But for me, the organ playing
Is somehow like the flowers
I
have grown, will grow.
