“…so hard to hear the music of what happens. Every day some poet dies from the strain.” ~ D. Bonta

Did you slip away when we weren’t looking,
did you see a white wading bird? Did you hear
the water arguing with itself, its longest

and most faithful lover? Did the branches
hang low over the water, did the reclusive
fish lift their heads to see? Did the dry

circle in the middle of the field burst
into flames at noon? Did the flood
rise step by step through the halls

and cathedrals of our towns?
Did you feel the warmth of fingerprints,
faint florets of breath so recently left,

it seems, by those who peered
momentarily through the glass
before turning and moving away?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.