"But In Contentment . . ."
But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.
Wallace Stevens, “Sunday Morning”
A perfect late August morning
And across the yard from me
She is sitting in the morning sun
Though there is a pine tree between us
And all I can see is her wrist and hand
Resting on the edge of the deck railing
In a perfect curving
Like a bird’s breast,
Her fingers unfolding like wing tips
From the nest of her palm,
Her hand hovering in the air . . .
And in this light, this moment,
Across the distance between us,
It is my longing that lifts and soars
Into the still air like birdsong.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2015-08-27 at 18:39
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