I think of you and a crow
charges out of a spruce tree
screeching black exclamations
into a suddenly windy evening.Smoke from fires in high
forests is settling into
this valley. The smell of it
insinuates into all ourcorners. Everything has been
hazy all day. As the sun
falls, the dimming sky turns
red and grey over the burningmountains. Down here
the wind is chilly. Birches
wave their frilly arms with
dry, flammable noises.
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@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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