Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:

This entry is part 6 of 29 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2012-13

 

the roses open despite the cold.

One touch of the child’s hand
and their garments float away—

no compass but the wind, nothing
to provision; no destination

that we don’t already know.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← IntersticeIn the grove →

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Your email address will not be published.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.

Discover more from Via Negativa

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading