04-27-2023, 06:11 PM
Floorboards in flashbacks pop like
The floorboards and flashbacks must combine in some way not sonically
ice cubes underfoot.
You pull your robe up against the cold
The icecubes some way to meet the robe
And stretch your fingers toward the fire.
How did we get here, after all these years?
And how will evening come?
Questions like this are hardwon in poetry
In this cabin where snow aches and presses at the windows
hungry days stretch cold under the Northern Winter sun.
I ask myself, “How will evening Come?”
The stanza above is smothered in details that don't carry line to line
From Spring’s red breast the river spills,
swollen,
stretching to touch your feet.
You lay back, laughing
and I ask myself,
“How will evening come?”
Two S sounds can be sacrificed.
? From Redbreast, the river swells
The weight of the Summer sky falls heavy on the West wall.
Throws shadows on the porch.
You lay back, laughing
and I ask myself,
Where your children will play. One day.
On the swing where I sit and watch
the shadows grow longer.
Darkening the larches across the valley.
I ask myself, as I often have, “How will evening come?”
The sunless sky answers.
There is, for now, silence.
I hold the letter with both hands- as I often have- .
sheltering it from the rising wind.
That's mild examples, huh?
From Redbreast, the river swells.
The weight of summer falls
heavy, the west wall throws
shadows on the porch.
Don't ask me. I don't know.
Where your children will play. One day.
From the swing, I watch
the shadowed larches across the valley.
Ask myself, as I often have,
“How will evening come?”
There is, for now, no answer.
I hold the letter with both hands,
sheltering it from the rising wind.
Floorboards crack, flash, like
The floorboards and flashbacks must combine in some way not sonically
ice cubes underfoot.
You pull your robe up against the cold
The icecubes some way to meet the robe
And stretch your fingers toward the fire.
How did we get here, after all these years?
And how will evening come?
Questions like this are hardwon in poetry
In this cabin where snow aches and presses at the windows
hungry days stretch cold under the Northern Winter sun.
I ask myself, “How will evening Come?”
The stanza above is smothered in details that don't carry line to line
From Spring’s red breast the river spills,
swollen,
stretching to touch your feet.
You lay back, laughing
and I ask myself,
“How will evening come?”
Two S sounds can be sacrificed.
? From Redbreast, the river swells
The weight of the Summer sky falls heavy on the West wall.
Throws shadows on the porch.
You lay back, laughing
and I ask myself,
Where your children will play. One day.
On the swing where I sit and watch
the shadows grow longer.
Darkening the larches across the valley.
I ask myself, as I often have, “How will evening come?”
The sunless sky answers.
There is, for now, silence.
I hold the letter with both hands- as I often have- .
sheltering it from the rising wind.
That's mild examples, huh?
From Redbreast, the river swells.
The weight of summer falls
heavy, the west wall throws
shadows on the porch.
Don't ask me. I don't know.
Where your children will play. One day.
From the swing, I watch
the shadowed larches across the valley.
Ask myself, as I often have,
“How will evening come?”
There is, for now, no answer.
I hold the letter with both hands,
sheltering it from the rising wind.
Floorboards crack, flash, like