Sky Blue

Can you finger that skyey
Riot come of age with frost, mountains
Furrowed, the tympanics of spring?

The hymns, thrums abuzz
With bee-deep illuminations
Unplucked from April's fields,
And still stroke the central sound,
Tip the primordial wine?

Listen. Explode now
With a delicious silence
To forge beyond blood-bred twilights,
Past the smoking dragon
Brow-deep, atom-steeped in ideologies.
For the end sky drums the bluest blue.

by Richard Bunch

Comments (2)

Bee-deep illuminations. Hmmmmm. I think I maybe kinda like this poem. I'm not sure why because I don't get much of it. But I do like your most unusual desrciption of spring. Bee-deep illuminations. Yessss!
Good Poem Theodora Onken