Via Negativa

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The dark night

I am listening for an owl that doesn’t call.
It’s as taciturn as the coyotes whose presence here
we mainly infer from footprints.
Night ripens on the boughs, its blue-black fruit
an antidote to the 24-hour Wal-Mart of the soul
in which I sink.

This entry was posted Friday, September 25th, 2009 at 11:32 pm, last modified at 11:13 am, 7/11/10 and is filed under Memoir, Poems & poem-like things, The via negativa.  Print

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I'm Dave Bonta, a poet and literary magazine editor from the eastern edge of western Pennsylvania. For background on the site, see the About page. For more about me, see my Google profile.

 

   

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  "On the whole I concentrated on things and people that I found charming and splendid; my notes are also full of poems and observations on trees and plants, birds and insects."
  — Sei Shonagon, 994 A.D.