Rising Five

"I'm rising five" he said
"Not four" and the little coils of hair
Un-clicked themselves upon his head.
His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare
At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light
Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He'd been alive
Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more;

Not four
But rising five.

Around him in the field, the cells of spring
Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot
And stem shook out the creases from their frills,
And every tree was swilled with green.
It was the season after blossoming,
Before the forming of the fruit:

Not May
But rising June.

And in the sky
The dust dissected the tangential light:

Not day
But rising night;

Not now
But rising soon.


The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.

We drop our youth behind us like a boy
Throwing away his toffee-wrappers.
We never see the flower,
But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit.
We look for the marriage bed
In the baby's cradle;
we look for the grave in the bed;

Not living
But rising dead.