Pale like the moon, your forehead
marked by a sliver of dirt—
How much time do we have, led in
and out of the maze-like woods?
The river quarrels noisily with the rain—
always, it tries to be more than it is.
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