the roses open despite the cold.
One touch of the child’s hand
and their garments float away—
no compass but the wind, nothing
to provision; no destination
that we don’t already know.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- After Apocalypse
- Déjà vu
- Dear Life,
- Festoon
- Interstice
- Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:
- In the grove
- Burning the Wishes
- Fisheye
- Hearts
- Ghazal, with Piano Bar in Winter
- Tracks
- Nostos
- N/ever
- Strange fur, this fine
- Cold Snap
- What I wanted to say
- In fallow season
- Insurmountable
- Dream Metonymy
- Exchange
- Resistance
- Ash Wednesday
- Mouth Stories
- Episode
- Zuihitsu for G.
- [poem removed by author]
- Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—
- Cursive