A Sense of One's Place
To stand for just an evening moment
and see the oak, spanish-moss tufted
pinned against a still blue but fading
sky, scraggly, most naked branches,
knobbed and curled, spiky balls of
bromeliad, pierced through on twigs
sea urchins on a thread, is to know
with some assurances how strange
we really are.
[07/30/10-2//082707]
No comments:
Post a Comment