Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
What splintered the limb
from the tree, rent
the watercolor-tinted
blooms from their base?
The bird that perches there now
will not say, though its call makes
a bright edge of noise: little rip
of paper sailing through the leaves.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
A road travelled every day
soon comes unhitched from the horizon.
You can switch roads or you can dance in place.
The fiddle player says:
I like to stare out the car window
& dream about staying put & growing roots.
You can dance in place or you can jam.
The banjo player says:
I never learn the tune as a whole, only its parts.
I remember the one little thing that’s different
& the rest takes care of itself.
You just keep jamming until something jells.