That old umbrella frame
I thought would be
Moonflowers, mini pumpkins;
That I imagined a cave of moths,
October poetry readings,
Finger food, fire pit smoke
That skeleton--
Lizard road and reflection
In the rain-filled anchor pot
Holds an empty season
Like a scarecrow year
In the water that waits
To be inhaled, wept out.
"The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes." --M. Somerset Maugham
ReplyDeleteI step aside for you.
The gap between imagination and the so-called real world is bridgeable here, and a substantial if fairy-delicate bridge it is. I especially love the cave of moths from the umbrella frame, the lizard road and the anchor pot leading to that final dazzling line. I can't say how happy I am to see you join us for the 55, and in that spirit, despite everything mitigating elsewise, may you have a kickass weekend.
ReplyDeleteThis is so beautiful and your ending spoke right to my spirit.
ReplyDeleteThat last stanza and line are amazing Chrissa! A utterly lovely 55!
ReplyDeleteyou write in a way that is impossible to read just once ~
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