Taylor Wilson Poetry

Taylor Wilson - Tufts
V:50 I:3

To Breathe a Daisy

For a day, a year,

perchance, a lifetime,

a bloodred birthday daisy

wilts quietly in a riotous bouquet.

The vase’s base can’t be 

the perfect orb that it appears

or my carpet would be littered

with bloodred daisy tears.

This day, this year

 - no more.

Like the blowing, sopping snow,

it melts into the streaming runoff,

indistinguishable

from the snowflake before it or after or with

but for the breath of a daisy

and water spilling to the floor.

To Breathe a Daisy
For a day, a year,
perchance, a lifetime,
a bloodred birthday daisy
wilts quietly in a riotous bouquet.
The vase’s base can’t be 
the perfect orb that it appears
or my carpet would be littered
with bloodred daisy tears.
This day, this year
 - no more.
Like the blowing, sopping snow,
it melts into the streaming runoff,
indistinguishable
from the snowflake before it or after or with
but for the breath of a daisy
and water spilling to the floor.

Shadows and Reflections

In the crystaline sun

shadows and reflections

trace contrast

on blinding white.

Tree shadows 

long in the fading day,

stoically await 

the dappled shade

of spring.

Footprints cross the shaows:

Intention, motion, frozen.

Sundial arms 

caress the angles

of each past

tense

step.

Perhaps

to be still

in snow

is not a death

but a contemplation

of the tracks I have left

before spring erupts,

and rain-washed footprints 

dissolve.

Cloud Drinks

A patch of hot blue sky drinks

the unsuspecting clouds that drift

into its thirsty space.

Vapors swirl and sigh

and are swallowed by the slurping sky,

lifting my heart by the eyes

on waves of deep content.

On solid dirt and scented grass,

unfettered sun heats my skin.

The sky drinks joy and spills it over me.

Darting swallows celebrate.

Even the flies on the daisy tops, today,

buzz happy.