“Where Are the Women?” Cry Their Lovers

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The garden in the morning when no eyes

Or ears are there, when no one’s nose goes past

The petals and perfume of rose; the skies

Of early morning sleeping, overcast

With subtle vacillating light bring scents

That come and go, slight fragrances that drift

Away like ancient spirits’ lost laments,

Like wraiths, like revenants, long lost, adrift

That gardens fail to conjure; gardens’ gates

Are never open to the lack of myth

Or symbol though they close their minds to hates

Except their thorns and cankers in bloom’s pith.

  The light and shadow go unseen.  The notes

      Of unheard blackbirds fail like sinking motes.

© Phillip Whidden