the enso

"Bringing the Outdoors In" by marlowe

the poem

We notice the single crocus
as it rises like a phoenix from her nest
of rotten leaves, snow, and dried roses
wilted like damask gowns. The wind
sings to us like a siren.

Pine needles, disturbed by the wind, bristle
like porcupine quills, and fallen leaves
tumble over the pavement, clapping
like the hooves of galloping horses.
And these holly berries cradled in my palm?
Drops of blood.

And this blood boiling in your veins?
Love. It isn’t what you make it,
love is. Your center, your core:
it is the hub of that wheel.

We walk to the center of the forest. Trees
point paths to the divine, above and below,
but these evergreens stand
as stiff as the Queen’s Guards.

This evening, the cappuccino froth will sit stiff,
as decadent as whipped cream,
in your spoon while peppermint nips
your tongue like frost. You will argue
that the corkscrew of this cinnamon roll
is a mortal coil.

We will be spoiled, coiled in layers.
Our stained glass ornament will glow like the North Star
while the Christmas tree lights shine like constellations.
And this wrapped present will be a universe
waiting to be discovered.

the enso

"Man-made Glaciers" by marlowe

the compilation

The rain ricochets off your car door, the concrete, like bullets
being fired from the sky, each raindrop is a microcosm,
while the clouds are spread, bumpy, like butter icing on a cake.
Each city looks like a star splattered against this topography,
its light scattered from the force of impact, gleaming
through a galaxy of galleries, a milky way of strip mall sprawl
offering promises it cannot keep. The glow of the street lamp glistens
in this drizzle, each strand of light like a spider’s silky line wet with dew.
You suspect everything is man-made:
the glacier in the adjacent lake is a water ski ramp, for instance.
As the calm surface of the pho broth mirrors your face,
chopsticks in hand – probing for the last noodle is like fishing
in your subconscious – you vibrate like a struck string,
singing your note while the patterns on your paisley shirt swirl
like a Rorschach test. You know dawn taunts us
to begin anew: it begs, see what can happen, it insists, yes,
embrace this illusion woven as bright as the rising sun.
Outside, black-eyed susans stand tall amid wild purple thistles,
luxury amid the raw beauty of utility,
and the blue mophead hydrangeas tease you like carnival snow cones.
You remember how
the clustered arms of the saguaro extend
like the towers of a Gaudi cathedral,
how the horns of a ram curve into a sacred omega.