V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





Green branches out across the garden
and beyond the wooden fence
mowed meadows are drying into hay.
Dreams rise from ruins of the past.
I admit I have scared skin
but the state of my soul
does not show in my laughter
whose gravity pulls down the sky
to sleep by the stream that never rests,
always flowing away from itself.
We start to speak
but not sure what to say,
we let half-finished sentences go.
Things that make no sense
create their own order,
like the chipmunk digging a tunnel
in the flower box
and then backing out to escape.
As if to surrender,
a white flag flies on the hill,
stirred by the same wind
that brings us music
only to take it away again.
Down the road where voices
meet and disengage,
I see a girl with red hair
carrying a wicker basket
toward a house.  By the door
she puts the basket down and waves,
not wanting to disappear.


© by Marianne Poloskey


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