This entry is part 81 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011


In front of a cloud
of blossoming mountain laurel,
a deer: the flash of her tan coat
passing quicker than a kiss farewell—

Always, you travel ahead. And yet
you’ve cast your shadow everywhere:
even here in the river shallows,
refracted in the volatile colors of fish
swimming from the brutal heat of day.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← VespertineParable →


One Reply to “Mirage”


    They are not there. Wherever you find them,
    they will not stay. Let them go, but keep
    their mark. Quicker than a farewell kiss,
    they run ahead of you and hope to throw
    you another one from the shadowy depths
    of yearning, of longing, of needing really.

    With sunrise, does not the claw-like
    shadow of the primrose stigma recede?
    It is the yellow blossom turns the path
    into a sparkling trail that will not be there
    when darkness shrouds the valley. Touch
    and go. They will not be there, these
    songs you scarcely hear from this distance.

    And your vesper question? What lessons on
    grasping and letting go do these things
    teach you? You cannot hold them down.
    But they will haunt you until you learn
    how to summon them when you need
    memories to touch your face caressingly.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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