from Ghost Blueprints

This entry is part 20 of 23 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2013-14



The sycamore drops
brittle grenades in the driveway.

Where there were snow
angels in the yard, now

there are sticky fingers
of mud—

But other emissaries
are on the way:

over the harbor,
winds pungent with salt;

the moon’s coppered
edge a sharper argument.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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