Birch trees downed
by beavers or storms
lay their heads in slow
water. Sparrows swarminto the tallest
locust; spill down
again, in a swell
of sound.The rocky bank
is patched with snow.
An ice floe rolls
in the undertow.My heart calls out
to something unknown,
an owl in its nest
of sticks and bones.
POEMS
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C - D
E - F
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I - J
K - L
M - N
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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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