Some days, I dream a snatch of a poem
standing on a rocky cliff, waiting to rebuff
a tsunami. Only a little phrase, language
rubbed with the odor of the sea, a spray of oil,
a veil of orange. For now, everything is warm:
too warm, too still, too soft from lying in the sun
with its mouth open, waiting for what brings
the coolness of water. The bird on a twig
with its breast rouged red is a prayer.
The bird is a question, or the bird
is an answer; or the bird is a letter.
It flies away. There’s always change.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Thanks too, to Risa Denenberg for her piece today.