“Sunday Morning” – a poem

unnamedOne of three poems I wrote last year with a focus on holes that can’t be filled.

 
“Sunday Morning”

The morning light comes early.
I still hear the tide slipping to darkness.
Three deer cross the yard. I watch them

from an upstairs window as if their moving
– noses curious to the winter ground, then
following low branches of water oaks leading

to the road – were some sort of message
I won’t heed. Wind pecking the screen
doesn’t help. Whatever I should have said,

I’ve lost. Words are only voice reaching.
Like Keats’s urn, everything moves,
but nothing lands, nothing finds a place.

 
    – written in Buxton, NC, appeared in Revolution John, no longer available online
 
 
 
 
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~ by samofthetenthousandthings on January 15, 2016.

2 Responses to ““Sunday Morning” – a poem”

  1. A gorgeous poem.

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