This entry is part 42 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011


We found the feathered body
beneath the window, red claws
stiffened into lower case C’s.


Whose voice is that then,
launching its frisson of a rising trill
across the field?


So little time: I clasp
the little tremor in my throat,
your hand under the table.


We pass the cup’s
clear lake of green
tea between us.


The French lilac answers,
its bright shimmer
backlit by the sun.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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One Reply to “Vocalise”


    The call for the final act jolts us
    like the frisson of a rising trill
    from an ephemera, perhaps a dream,
    that you have, indeed, returned.
    But the passing of clear, lake green
    tea between us is an intermission
    that is just that—a passing moment.
    So little time. Like a quick tremor
    on my throat. And your fingers must
    yet again release my unwilling hands
    from its fevered clasp, its grip under
    this empty table. O, how fast thought
    careens into a dying dream.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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