Whatever it is

This entry is part 10 of 19 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2015


Green pail overturned in the garden,
the creaking hinge of a gate.


Above pebbled blankets of cloud, the sound
that groups of birds make, flying south.


The sticky wad of silk a spider wrapped
around a pouch still faintly pulsing.


Pale slick like melted butter
around a rising moon.


Branches that gave fruit after fruit
now mired in difficult remembering.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← When we speak through a mediumSynecdoche →

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