Lost Lyric

This entry is part 71 of 93 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2011

Shh. Say nothing of the racket of jays
in the crown of an oak, commotion

of feathers every which way—
I don’t know either how to find

the way back to the garden; only
now there is everything to say.

Moths lie still on the mesh
of the window, light

being the project
never quite done.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← ChainusDear recklessness, dear jeweled →

3 Comments


  1. BACK IN THE GARDEN

    (For Luisa, at 50)

    In our peculiar roundabout ways,
    we have tried to retrace our way
    back to the garden, using words
    as lanterns to light obscured paths
    we hope to find again, know again,
    walk through again till we get there.

    Like the still moths on the window,
    we gather toward flames where
    they glow warmest, to keep us alive
    when falling off into dark nights
    of hurt and doubt, of wordlessness,
    finding ourselves betrayed. Muted.

    Light being the project never quite
    done, have we not arrogated a task
    of flitting about like fireflies, carting
    fire to recondite places where lost
    flower eaters long still for burning
    bushes billowing with quiet words?

    —Albert B. Casuga
    09-03-11

    Reply

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