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.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- In the hotel with thin walls and the name of a poet,
- Close Reading
- Soul Spa
- The difficulty
- When we speak through a medium
- Whatever it is
- Private: Where the seed scattered
- Uncle Frank warned my father
- What can you hear in this downpour?
- Sketches for a Genealogy
- Private: Sketches for a Genealogy