The Poem
This happens all too often where I am . . . on the one hand I hate to see it and on the other I can't seem to not watch.
. . . it is the movement that achieves the form.
Richard Howard, “Like Most Revelations”
Each day chooses how it will compose itself,
And this morning the poem is the movement
Of each thing into the one moment: the rain
Ending and running down the little runnels
Squirrels made between the pines, the dove
Leaping from a branch of the crabapple tree,
The springing arc of the red buds barely open
And the few fragile separate leaves unsettling
The light where the dark hovering hawk breaks
Its circle and its silence, falling to the dove's
Rising, each a brief cry caught in the throat,
A furious flutter and then the sudden quiet,
Scatter of gray and white feathers tinged red,
Wind lifting each one gently into flight again.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2013-04-08 at 21:55
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Lawrence Beck |
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josephus |
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Commentally Ill |
