Verdure

Verdure
is walking away from me.
The old familiar
address
held by
a headless landlord.

Drink the third day's rain as it pitter-patters from
the tin-roof
and giggles on our tongues,
tasteless.
Fill up the earthen bowls
with water for birds;
they will fly back
and look towards this bureau,
bathe outside on moist mornings
and embark with inaudible wishes.

With these desks left behind.
With this courtyard emptied.

Only let this verdure
grow around your body
that moved like a salve
when indolence yawned
and misled us
around the last
edified days of June.

***

Tell verdure
to change
this course of humanity.
To not take away
this establishment
and its fixedness.

Verdure,
use a miracle;
produce in the human mind
an awakening,
a commiseration
with us.

Send on those cold citadels
your earnest summons.
Instruct those contractors up there
to delay this division
of the land.

This is not the time
to let a new land
spread its soil.

This is not the time
to count seeds
scattered
for compensation.

This is not the time
to condemn
dreams established
around this site.

***

It's not the time
to bury and fill
verdure with brown earth.