Wednesday, June 14, 2017

When wind sirens

water pays attention.  Moves off-center into a splash-orbit where poems form.  Listen, centrifugal force is laughing.  And out-of-sight, the Fuyu persimmons are thinking of ripening. There is joy in persimmons.  There is wetness to a poem.

1 comment:


    Letting all brush with danger takes its time, they lingered in the ancient ruins. A certainty called to them as stones crumbling might still sing. He beckoned for her to sit next to him on the aging swing, and put his cloak on the warped board for her comfort. Off in the distance, they could hear the faint splash of a fountain, its iron spout full of lichen and rust.