The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green rage; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How the same mouth sucks a Weinstein for a part
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The oaks that surround me are olive-colored now, sap green mixed with ochre, on their way toward the dried sienna that gives way to the umber of dirt.
Green rage? No such thing. While rage works alongside age, its as old as dirt, covered with a dark crust the color of dried blood and bark, under which a red hot fire waits to explode, like an orange and black striped tiger in a cage, pacing and watching for an opportunity to let loose, break free and run.
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