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:
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.
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