This entry is part 34 of 93 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2011


Overcast sky, the rain that falls
elsewhere. The canopy of electric sound
cicadas weave throughout the trees.

You have me scour the pockets
of such moments for some remnant
change— and here I lay them down

and balance them on a rim of glass.
A silver-spotted skipper drinks
from the bergamot and I want

to tip my face toward the flower’s
starburst cup. So long at work,
and teetering from one impossible

task to another. I count and recount
an abacus of spilled grain, water flowing
from a sieve: o gather me now in.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Letter to StoneMilagrito: Eye of the Raven →

5 Replies to “Orison”

  1. Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.

    (Do not attempt to adjust your set. We control the orisontal, we control the veridical…)

    But seriously, I love this poem. I love counting of coins and grains, I love the infinite possibilities of “you.” But I still don’t know what a skimmer is.

      1. In that case, you might want to change it to “skipper” (a member of the Hesperioidea, a clade apart from all other butterflies). I thought perhaps you were doing some sort of poetic mash-up between my skipper and your skimmers.

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