The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Rosemary Winslow
At the O Street Park, January 27, 6 a.m.
A cold Sunday
cold iron benches and abandoned chess tables cold shoulder me I look up—a locust’s nude limbs reach over my head, flowing eastward like the pour of a woman’s hair
High above two gulls, their
wings spread in white and ebony keys, glide in circles and 8s on a sequence of updrafts They play like a pair of lovers on skates All the space of the world is theirs
Sky’s a work of pearl this hour waiting for sun I’m waiting for you waiting for you to be as you were I don’t know how, in this hour where grief and hope commingle at the twin ends of night Even when the still small leaf buds overhead on twig-ends say Even as the sun comes full over the edge of the world I don’t know how hope and grief commingle at the twin ends of night in this round world and they do, circling and diving over and over and under tumbling and turning, loose ends trailing they kiss the sky Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |