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Open Poetry #29

Soft as the silt of dawn

bsquirrel

Member Rara Avis

since 2000-01-03

Posts 7855

0 posted 2003-10-22 12:51 PM

Crepuscular rays become words
floating down the page -- a touch
of moon, silver circle
illuminating instance. And distance
is a tree's long hands
reaching for the stars. The mist
he scrapes apart with nails
soft as weathered wood.

The scent of night is twined in verses
purple as the ending sky. Clasps of flowers
fastened tight to fence posts, marking ways.
Where to walk and where to talk and where to listen,
where to crawl. Where to stop and where to start
and where to hold onto the wall.

My hand slipping against the fence,
I came across a difference. The thorns that usually
cut my hands were old -- and only scattered.
Claws arrayed against the earth. Had they ever mattered
when soft cuts seemed a solace
light as roses' dust?

Such words are gathered with a scythe --
cut at stalk, they bleed.
They displace seed, their roots clench tight
to taste wet wilting petals.
The mud is born within each rain --
tonight the sky is clear.
Crepuscular rays filter down,
and they end up here.

What of the vespertine? They speak
a language full of spaces. As this poem
finds its close, so the sky re-opens. As
the road puts away leeward hours' traveling,
crepuscular rays thread through dawn,
an alchemy unraveling.

passing shadows
Member Empyrean

since 1999-08-26

Posts 45577
displaced