Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Grace Note
Looking up at the moon
above these wires is like
lying under four silver-white
viola strings--and you
a throb of song.
Your words live, Elena. Your poems are a perpetual occasion of gratitude.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much, Tom!
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