A slow, slow waking into
a foggy morning. In the night
I woke to the soft ticking of rain
on the windows. I am looking,
carefully, for a poem, in all the bare
branches of trees; under the stones
on the path; in the cold, low
river; in the colorless sky. In the
evening a huge crescent moon floats
above downtown, as if it had risen
from the spike on the tallest building.
Green is pushing up, from the hard
ground, through soft, composted flower
beds, through the tough skin of tree
limbs. Sunlight creeps earlier and
farther into this garden each longer day,
and as the season widens and opens,
my life narrows and thins down,
falling, to this one bud, this tiny press of
clematis, this small space, in this small
town, on this small, blue world.
On Wed, 16 Mar 2005 13:22:00 -0700, Sharon Brogan <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> A slow, slow waking into
--
Sharon Brogan
http://www.sbpoet.com
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