This entry is part 14 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011


Whistle of wingbeats skimming the trees,
long skein of road on which we travel—
I don’t want to ask anymore about time
or provisions. I don’t want to think
about the end. The light is milky
as tempera, tentative as flight.
The hydrangea bush we thought
was dead has come back, pushing new
buds of green. At night, the garden
pillows unsaid words and dreams.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Letter to the Street Where I Grew Up (City Camp Alley, Baguio City)Parable of Sound →


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