Poetry and Poetics
recovers everything and stains
day with morning, rolling many rains
past the quietly open window panes
like no more reasons, like a surrendered gain.
Mist, your small feet, which actually were born,
step in their darkening way through what's been torn
(a child covering her eyes, a night in pain
surrendering into morning).
You remain, mist over many valleys,
roofs, and at last,
my eyes: you,
mist of fawns.
© by Annie Finch
Table of contents
VPR home page
[Best read with browser font preferences set
12 pt. Times New Roman]