This entry is part 34 of 41 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2012


And what is to be visceral, if not to lead with the deeper mind of the body’s insides? The gut is often wiser than the radio which sits in its alcove in the attic (keenly wired to the world and its signals but only for as long as its battery acids have been replenished). So cold today… Seen from the high oriel window that juts out of brick: a skein of dark glyphs over gray-draped fields, the quarrelsome racket of crows. I’ve learned not to believe everything that purports to bring forward an accounting. In our ledger of days, the hills might be pages crammed with previous scripts— And yet, even the lopped-up limbs of dead trees twitch back to life in the fire.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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