Thin bony finger,
cold that stopped
the furnaces
when everyone
was sleeping—
who knows
what dress
it was wearing
what shadow
it cast
on the porch
before it left
soundless
on the heels
of the wind.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Solstice
- Above the roar of the creek, a flock of goldfinches whistling:
- Hunger
- Still Life
- (poem temporarily hidden by author)
- Year’s End
- [hidden by author]
- Why Not
- Oracle
- Alba
- By Ear
- From blaze
- Panis Angelicus
- Maze
- Parsing
- Cold Country
- Perpetuum mobile
- Aubade, with no lover departing at dawn
- Preguntas
- from Ghost Blueprints
- Signal No. 3
- Flower