Spaces between worlds
Whisper November
On the blue horizon, islands change
shape. The woman becomes a table,
her round hip flattened to hold candle
or tea cup, a sheet of writing paper as
the dawn pours bright ink over stirring
terrain to whisper it is now November.
One line after another, the story takes
form. What were middling beginnings
pass into ends that recede beyond the
deep cobalt kiss that joins sea to land.
It is the time you might come to me,
this season of spaces between worlds.
You might take my face in your hands
and press your lips of empire into my
surrender, take all I would yield gladly
to certain conquer. Birds and rabbits go
by and the heavy sun shakes off the dew
left from a hallowed night of weeping.
Before yesterday, there was no you.
No me; no us. And now November
whispers a season we might never
have traversed. Pomegranates leave
hived kisses in the trees that we might
happen beneath them, bough by bough.
On the blue horizon, the woman changes
shape. The island becomes a wild rose,
her curved petals folding in to hold bee
and tea ant, a sheaf of coiled parchment
as the wind inscribes its gentle name to
murmur only that it is now November.
Joseph Gallo
November 1, 2010
post-time 9:22 AM
4 Comments:
Beautiful, Joseph. It tastes like shorter days and carries the cadence of autumn.
You're writing the blurby forward for my next book, Kyle. I mean who knew autumn had a cadence? ;-)
Oh yes. It goes a lot like, "middling beginnings
pass into ends that recede ..." And birds and rabbits rest longer and longer in the undergrowth.
Hey, I like that line. I might use it. ;-) Thanks for the insight. You always have it and so keenly.
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