Strange cries that filter through the fog
and trees: blur of goldfinch and raven wings,
loping legs of deer. In between these acts,
a silence which I color every now and then
with my own speech, or tears.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Lovely interstice of meter and mixed senses. Like clearing the stage, or the palette.
Hi Peter — all of a sudden your comment took me back to some years ago when a friend took me to a fancy French restaurant in Chicago; in between courses, they brought out little scoops of lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate. :)