These Rags of Flesh

Perhaps it’s the light today, but
Look—the rhododendron bush
With its thin, yellowing branches
Seems a rib cage, clenched and frail.

And these petals but rags of flesh
Drying in the sun. Do you hear
A whicker like thin steel on stone?
This is not the snickering
Wind of August moving dust grain
By grain, petrifying stems.

Among the rhododendron’s ribs
A hummingbird blurs its wings;
A small heart thrumming frantic to
Moisten these bones, their marrow.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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