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.
[LAG-signature date=”05 15 2011″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2009/05/15/108165419″]
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. :)