Flicker

Made heavy by rain,
the heads of hydrangea
droop to the ground.

I do not come
looking for trouble—
Nor do I want to take away

your joy. Leaves
of the dogwood tipped
silver, leaves

of the ginkgo
spliced open
like fans—

At a certain hour,
one by one, each
evening almost

like a birthday:
street lamps
flicker on.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Birthday of Desire.

1 Comment


  1. Found myself relaxing in this poem as in a hammock. Thank you, Luisa.

    Reply

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