Once dressed in green, no hopes
fly south; instead they burn
their orange prayer flags.
The mallet and the string,
the shawm and the oboe. The single
reed that stirs when the water stirs.
And the cornets of brass, bright
relatives to the sickle: its rusted
bronze curve leaning against the wall.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Stage Directions
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song