Poetry and Poetics
They are the spaces without words,
the warm snow underneath the cold
that stops the winterkill of roots,
the faint presence of burning
that hangs in the air before the fire
or the sound of birds whose songs
have been captured by wind.
They are the touch of no hand
when love has gone
or age has overtaken you,
the sight of a landscape
not yet seen, the length of rail
the train has not yet traveled.
They are the before and after,
the in-between, the last lilt
of the marketplace at dusk
when the vendors have rolled up
their squeaking awnings
in Haymarket Square and Antonio
has shut himself behind his green door.
Because of the absent moments,
you will always be waiting
for something to arrive—
fresh from sleep, holding out
a round of goat’s cheese
and a market-bag of yesterday’s
peaches and plums.
© by Patricia
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