Wednesday February 16, 2011

A river of fire between the trees where the sun reflects off the snowpack’s white glass. The deep blue sky is marred only by crows.

3 Comments


  1. To Flower

    No snakes climb out of the pipes
    or drop from the ceiling into our laps.
    No blind men playing harmonica on the corner

    break the crusts from their eyes and leap
    with joy. No saint comes down the alleyway,
    clad in camel-cloth and ashes, offering bread

    smeared with honey and locusts. What hand
    looms large, lettering this wilderness?
    My prayers are stones and I’m so tired

    I want to lay my head down by the water.
    There’s a river of fire between the trees.
    There’s the deep blue sky gashed

    by a cursive of crows. And all I want
    is for that heart caught in snow
    and ice to flower, flower.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    02 16 2011



  2. beginnings are a flight of crows
    seeming-random lead and direction changes
    black dog snores from the rug

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