Monday, April 25, 2016

FRAILTY AT NINE O'CLOCK

Nothing particularly strange
or significant

about—
another demolished

three-
quarter remnant

of waxpapery robin's
egg, coaxed

by the
gray morning

wind—into a desiccated
whisper, bobbling now

ignorantly back
and forth across

the green and un-
even wood

planks to the
left of our outside front doorstep.

And yet,
we both stop

on our way
out, to marvel—

I, just
dumb at the sight

of what
seems to me like

possibly either—a sign of new life's
gutsy daring,

or else, it's unfair-
ly high

margin of certain
disaster;

and Lucy,
at the end of her

tether, sniffing
it and

barking a
little, threatened—as a mother

by the apparent
hollowness of the sound.

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?