The fires have ended. It is a different
life. My neighbors climb through black
forests, green trying to grow new
willows. I wake with a wet face.Morning peers through the shutters,
narrow ellipses of light. It paints
the white walls whiter. A shattered skin
of ice on the birdbath. Everythingis shutting down. The hummingbird
comes for the last honeysuckle blossom,
an iridescent whir in a pink-fingered hand.
Pale roses in the sheltered garden soak upthe briefer light, cast it back into early shade.
POEMS
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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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