Something else given
Quail Under Brush
To paint them would diminish.
Their color, unpalettable.
My hand, unworthy; the light
irredeemable as sleep.
To live in perpetual alarm would
nail canvas to wood, wood to
shadow, shadow to sky and all
that would bear harm from it.
Dirtmound serves a perfect
promontory. The tasseled
sentinel holds wary; any
suddenness cause for claxon.
They sight me in colors swathed
by the spectrum of their rich
vision. Heat and aura paint
me with threatless precision.
Signature not owl, not bobcat,
not hawk; vertical, observing,
nothing imminent, but something,
something else given to mistrust.
Joseph Gallo
March 1, 2010
post-time 2:09 PM
2 Comments:
Here's a poet's compassion for life. It makes me feel more gentle, calm.
We write about what we see, what we sense, and very little in between.
Thank you, my friend.
Gentle & calm is a cozy sanctuary in these troubled times.
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