This entry is part 91 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011

What splintered the limb
from the tree, rent
the watercolor-tinted
blooms from their base?

The bird that perches there now
will not say, though its call makes
a bright edge of noise: little rip
of paper sailing through the leaves.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Landscape, with Repeating Sounds


  1. Turn the page. This poem is lovely.


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