Tag Archives: metaphor


Neat and tidy beds
are for beginners
who haven’t spent
enough time sitting
by the open window
with a pillow
crushed between
their chest and knees
breathing in
the lilac gone wild
or the sweet
magnolia ashei
to be inhaled.
Neat and tidy beds
are for those
who need control
over creativity—
who believe
that letting the soft
and delicate petals
of the columbine
with the wood mint
might lead to one
taking advantage
of the other.
Neat and tidy beds
have so much
pruned into them—
as though
it made no sense
to believe
that the milkweed
and the marigold
could compliment
each other
if they were allowed
the freedom
to touch and bloom
below the sheets
of sunlight
ruffled with
occasional rain.





“Flower Beds in Holland” Vincent van Gogh, 1883


It was a lovely sound—
all that autumn color
crunching beneath my steps.
At a broad glance,
the sky was mottled gray
but seemed bright white
when I looked up
through all those branches,
mostly bare and trembling
in the dark coat
of their silhouettes.
Two leaves caught my eye
and caused me to pivot
underneath them,
walk a few steps back
and admire them
for their proximity to the end
of the longest branch,
and for their unwillingness
to fall.
They were so close
they overlapped
and though they both had holes,
one was less infirm
than the other,
and it seemed to me
in that hallowed moment
that I was witnessing some
act of kindness so great
I wanted to give it life—
so I imagined them
with tiny minds
and large emotions,
feeling the comfort that comes
when loved ones
agree to stay close
when a change is about come—
when everything familiar
has fallen away
except the enduring serenity
of friendship and love.


DeMaris Gaunt


Found a bumble bee on my walk,
doubled over, dead, but freshly so—
with a velvet coat still bright
as a morning daffodil.
Its black enamel eyes
were frozen in some unknowable expression
which felt familiar and sad.
The weightless body was the size
of my fingertip, and as I held it in my palm
I thought of bringing it home,
placing it on the table for you to see—
but we’d just had dinner there
and you didn’t seem interested in my details,
which is why I took the walk
that led me to the silent bee—
and I admired his grounded wings, alone,
before returning his lifeless body
to the bed of bright green weeds.


DeMaris Gaunt



The gallon of milk was almost empty,

but so was the box of cereal.

Unrolling the noise of the transparent plastic bag,

I could see there were only a few small biscuits of wheat

above a layer of dusty white frosting

that had been knocked off with

every motion of lift and shake and pour.


Over a week,

I witnessed each diminishing increment of milk

and cereal and never once wondered

if they’d make it to the same last day,

but here they are, saying goodbye to the bowl and spoon

and to each other, as we soon will,

unprepared for the last bite of residual sweetness

that will make it almost impossible

to swallow.



DeMaris Gaunt