Mist turns to rain, then windows
curtain with fog.
Months of watching doorways
grow ruffs of green, fronds
dimpling the wood. We unroll
parchment on the table, take out
our inks and instruments. One of us
climbs to the roof with a spyglass,
calls out the shapes of islands
emerging from the dark.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Restless
- Appropriate
- Inhabit
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- Lengthen
- Libretto
- Smoke
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- Tendril
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Disintegrate
- Stage Directions
- Monsoon
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Evidence
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song
- Wintering