The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Hiram Larew

IT'S GETTING LATE

Where is your home
Where do you go when the rain tells you to
Or if the night's wing is full open
What does it mean when
A hill sings back clear
Or the soup tries to whistle
How can a voice be just like pulled onions—
Oh the edge of smoke and your questions

Too often it seems shoulders are cold
And time barely hellos
Roots stop at rocks
And there is much more to this place than the people—
So who is made of who
Where is your never not knowing
Your birds looking down
Your sky on the land
Your surrounding
Is there somewhere as far as you're going

There's a comfort in things
That don’t circle back
And words that search for forever
Half of your place is knowing
What to ask last
Like embers at night
While the other is out guessing before
At what love is.


Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication