Strange sorrow, burnt bean,
dark yet perfectly singed;
a single black ant
marching the porch bannister
obsessed with destination.
Not like us who move
in many directions
on the way in
or out of heaven.
Watch the lonely bird,
again and again he rises,
each ascent his eyes
shooting fire,
his lovely wings crack
and bend like an old
woman's back or
a broken mast
in a pirate's battle
splinter in half.
Futile, yes, but
admired.
1 comment:
o my rachel after all these years and you changed the design, the color and template _ good work and as always your poems are searing and eloquent, and more. but this is merely a comment not an extended appreciation which your work would deserve under other circumstances. in the meanwhile we'll just keep reading one another and imagine. glad you seem well, god bless.
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