I have grown down
through the fields
with wooden skin
and crooked bones

concealing where
I've started from.

This mouth of earth
rich as breathing,
salt-wounded, twisted
digging out a passageway

to home, full of darkness
dreaming of a blossom.

Above the weed chokes
the tender vine, ill-willed
unlike the sun and rain
whose bodies glisten like ripples

in a quiet lake and perfectly
disseminate in convex lines.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Your poems always make those Frostian hairs on the back of my neck stand up ... and my whole skin tingle. I savour your words! (What they convey and the way they convey it.)

As reading poetry that has that effect is one of my greatest pleasures, I'm extremely grateful!

If I don't comment on every piece, it's only because it would get too repetitive.