“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


~ by samofthetenthousandthings on January 15, 2016.

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

  1. A gorgeous poem.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: