And the poem: does it hold you,
welcome you, swallow you whole?
Does it burrow in you like a secret,
wind the key a little tighter
in the lock, unravel like a bright
string of yarn plucked from a sleeve?
Does it send down the night like a maw
or use the silhouettes of trees for fringe?
When nothing stirs, it’s easy to think
the mountain’s cold heart won’t thaw.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- After Apocalypse
- Déjà vu
- Dear Life,
- Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:
- In the grove
- Burning the Wishes
- Ghazal, with Piano Bar in Winter
- Strange fur, this fine
- Cold Snap
- What I wanted to say
- In fallow season
- Dream Metonymy
- Ash Wednesday
- Mouth Stories
- Zuihitsu for G.
- [poem removed by author]
- Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—