This entry is part 61 of 73 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12


Across the chopping block, a scallion
becomes a filigree of green.
High overhead, you mostly hear
(not see) a ragged flock of geese—
but they are there, stubborn,
writing against the wind.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← High in the hills, the deadBesame, →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.