The Pendulum of Time

A baby blue bowl floating in a sea
Peony petals rippling the pond
A bird’s nest of freshly kindled eggs.

And this is where sentiment blooms, invigorated in the vein of the pulp. This is where a pollen grain can hitherto germinate, in the buds of white trees. White shoots, not white roots, my father tells me.

Water brimming the blue to drip glitter
Illuminating the sense of infinity
For which the ducks follow with doe eyes

And this is where fire raptures, burning the white leaves. Hot, hot are branches on my arms. A scathing incandescence looms like a shadow, burning my hands, my hopes. Little does Father know the shadow, barricading the children like mice into molten enclaves.

Eggs splattered onto hot flesh
flailing birds, hanging with dimly lit stars flaming their breasts
Caves burning holes in chest feathers

And this is where desire’s elixir intoxicates veins. White veins gone crimson, painting the stem of the flower. A glossed stone in a puddle of deceit, terrible deceit, unspeakable deceit…

The bowl is empty.
Wrenched flowers lick wet lily pads
Wind-- it sings through the Earth as
my heartbeat stills

The naked tree bends over the water in hushed silence. Hollow ice cubes floating on the surface, a crystal lattice in frozen time. The clock shivers with quiet ticking. I look to my cold father, laying in front of the fire, then back to time. It swings unceasingly.

Katherine Vandermel strives to treat the world like her canvas, and to paint it, with words. When she is not writing, she is listening to classical music, swimming, or eating.

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