Tree-of-Heaven with winged seeds aka "keys" (Credit:


Winter’s last sortie, the weather gods predicting
an inch or two of sturm und slush… Our skin, our lungs—
and the body’s other sentries all too aware
of a frost-bit crocus somewhere—groan. (It’s April 7th &

the clock radio woke us to crow about
American troops in Baghdad and “Chemical Ali,”
found dead in Basra.)  John mocks the shrill right-wing
flunky from Defense: “Not occupy, liberate. We’re

there to liberate the shit outta them mothafuckahs!”
I had bad dreams, cried out, and thrashed till calmed,
apparently.  My father’s dementia—and his slow
good night—was one goad, perhaps.  Or was it that boy

kicking his spaniel on the street?  Outside, a Tree-of-Heaven’s
dried keys rattle in the gathering confusion.

* Click on on the arrow icon below to hear Malcolm Farley read “Aubade”


About Malcolm Farley

Writer, Photographer, Poet, Imagineer
This entry was posted in My Poetry, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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