Working Poetry Month, another work in progress, responses welcome
Untitled The silence circles its fingertip on the rim of a glass, and the tone comes, strung ice-water tight. The afternoon looks out the window. An old chair offers the body ease, and neither speaks. Senses float, here and there exclaiming their hunger like gulls that slice across the view outside. The willow’s winter straws cross and twist. How can these knotted strings be eternal, simple, yellow since before and after your words? How can this tree not know you, when it flows as you breathe?
Photo by me, Fens Victory Gardens, Boston, MA