The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Edison Jennings
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A globe of Baccarat glass on a sheet her hand had half-filled, then stopped where she reached an impasse when her heart had foundered then killed the line she had yet to indite and the thought her mind had distilled, held a dogwood bloom and a bee as if caught in mid-flight inches away from the bloom, and the poem she intended to write. Summons Sunflowers, tonsured holy-Joes, once fat-faced with seed, now broken backed and winter-shorn, no more turn and track the sun but sleeved with ice, coruscate of a sudden church-belled air, as if the hills were clapper-struck, welling sky with tolling bells though I don’t know of what the tolling tells. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |