The largest fragment
holds a perfect curve--
a dome of night-blue sky,
a speckling of stars,
and, at one sharp edge,
a tip of angel's wing.
Long before the glass globe
dropped and flew in shards
across the carpet
and under the counter,
an artisan's brush needled
through the smallest
circumference, figuring
in the bubble's heart
with a tip as fine
as babies' lashes:
first, gray lines of feathers,
then the white of wings
and constellations,
finally, blue dusk
of Arizona evenings.
Pieces, when cupped
upwards like cracked
eggshells, show
edges of glass
after the paint--
rims of silver shine
like rain or tears.
My touch, brushing
the long-hidden blue,
leaves a thumb print
in the sky.
I think, somehow,
of a punctured egg
once culled from
my broody hen's nest,
already ruined
by some clumsy
chicken knee or toe.
I opened it to find
what lived inside:
within a nearly clear curl
of life, a tiny red speck
blinking (open-closed,
open, closed)
in the forbidden light.
holds a perfect curve--
a dome of night-blue sky,
a speckling of stars,
and, at one sharp edge,
a tip of angel's wing.
Long before the glass globe
dropped and flew in shards
across the carpet
and under the counter,
an artisan's brush needled
through the smallest
circumference, figuring
in the bubble's heart
with a tip as fine
as babies' lashes:
first, gray lines of feathers,
then the white of wings
and constellations,
finally, blue dusk
of Arizona evenings.
Pieces, when cupped
upwards like cracked
eggshells, show
edges of glass
after the paint--
rims of silver shine
like rain or tears.
My touch, brushing
the long-hidden blue,
leaves a thumb print
in the sky.
I think, somehow,
of a punctured egg
once culled from
my broody hen's nest,
already ruined
by some clumsy
chicken knee or toe.
I opened it to find
what lived inside:
within a nearly clear curl
of life, a tiny red speck
blinking (open-closed,
open, closed)
in the forbidden light.
From beginning to end, your language is secure: not a diffident note, not a note that wavers, and certainly nothing flat or false. I wish, and wish devoutly, that poetry so excellent could receive a laurel more fitting than my praise, but I do praise it, and praise it gladly. This is a poem of vitality, of keen observation, of unostentatious skill, and an awesome way to begin the morning!
ReplyDelete(When I got to "the forbidden light," I think I actually said, "Wow!")
Thomas, thank you so much! I feel very blessed by your generous encouragement and enjoyment.
ReplyDelete