There’s that plucked
melody again, the same
but different, space
of a water drop between
two notes then five,
returning but not
to the same stone
rough shod and green
as a lizard’s skin—
pick it up
and turn it over:
yes like that.
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