The roses begin to fade and I consider
closing the windows at night but choose
blankets instead. I dream that an old friendhas taken to drink again, and the pain of it
blooms in the dark cavern of my chest, a deep-
red lily, a beautiful wound. Berries ripenon the bushes. Uncountable birds. One bright
morning I find a kestrel in the dogwood,
eyeing the well-fed sparrows. Flowerbedshum with gold wasps, black wasps, grass-
hoppers, a black-and-white cat crouched
beneath the clematis. Old friend, how is itthat people are at ease with one another?
When I return from my walk by the river,
a hundred finches fly up from the gate.
POEMS
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C - D
E - F
G - H
I - J
K - L
M - N
O - R
S
W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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