Once dressed in green, no hopes
fly south; instead they burn
their orange prayer flags.
*
The mallet and the string,
the shawm and the oboe. The single
reed that stirs when the water stirs.
*
And the cornets of brass, bright
relatives to the sickle: its rusted
bronze curve leaning against the wall.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Restless
- Appropriate
- Inhabit
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- Lengthen
- Libretto
- Smoke
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- Tendril
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Disintegrate
- Stage Directions
- Monsoon
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Evidence
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song
- Wintering