Wednesday, October 02, 2013


Painting by S. Auberle

an old painting, an old poem, revised...originally published in Crow Ink...


Is it that old wish for flight that halts you on the street as vees of geese wing   overhead?  A stab of lonesome, quickened desire—what stops you?  Could it be the thought of another year slipping away from your life--once more that bare oak by the front door, Basho’s lone crow brooding again on a branch?  Raucous conversation drifts down from the sky--language of poetry, of passion, language of loss--that shivers down your back, but you huddle into your coat as rain begins, and hurry on into that life you were given, the only one you'll ever dare to know…


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