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Oysters
Paul Tylor
These jagged rocks
Hide their salty worth
Behind a hidden hinge
That cannot, alas, elude
The shucker’s probing knife:
Snatched from a mound of ice
The oyster, until its hinge
Is found and disengaged,
Believes in immortality,
Has convinced itself
That all within its
Hermetic world is infinite.
But then the shucker turns
A practiced blade and
Reveals what some bold
Viking might first have
Made known: Inside a
Chunk of volcanic stone
A soft, chilled morsel
Waits to be eaten.
In The Dead...
Paul Tylor
In the dead of winter cocoons are in every
Leafless tree and brittle bush, dangling
Upside down, or so it seems, like antique
Earrings.
They also look like miniature knight’s maces,
Indestructible, unopenable, lethal: Yet,
They are the temporary home of spring’s
Fluttering fauna, from which worm-like
Caterpillars will emerge, that will eventually
Turn into flowers that fly.
What a clever trick: First, cloister the
Nascent plainness, then, when the make-over’s
Complete, release and flaunt nature’s
Perfect handiwork.
The Provocative Dawn
Paul Tylor
A dense darkness drapes
The dawn, not a trace
Of its pink slip in sight,
Not until 5:45 a.m.
Then in hesitant stages
Dawn stages a provocative entrance;
Its orange, sequined smock
Appears, but is soon discarded,
Revealing a rich, gold camisole
In which it slinks about all morning.
In The Fall
Paul Tylor
In fall trees hold their
breath so long that their leaves turn
red until winter.
BUTTERFLIES IN MAY
Paul Tylor
At this time of year gangs of white
Butterflies gather, searching manically
For the apparent place of their recent birth.
They are too too happy about a life
About to end, searching for a reassuring
Scent or the sight of an insect
So small it tires when reaching
The mid-point of a blade of grass.
The butterflies, the size of postage stamps,
Twirl about in the calm morning, as if caught
In a tornado. Day after day they dance ballet
In quest of God knows what.
But are today’s butterflies the same as yesterday’s?
I doubt it, yet they are as well rehearsed
As Monday’s troupe that spun along the line of bushes
Straining in mid-May to become more green.
Suddenly, the May butterflies are gone,
Like an idea for a new poem.
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