What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard

This entry is part 10 of 28 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013

Once dressed in green, no hopes
fly south; instead they burn
their orange prayer flags.

*

The mallet and the string,
the shawm and the oboe. The single
reed that stirs when the water stirs.

*

And the cornets of brass, bright
relatives to the sickle: its rusted
bronze curve leaning against the wall.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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