A portent of plenty
Omenology
It might be the owl that cues the night
from her branch in the oak when I rise
half asleep to relieve myself at the precise
moment I begin to think of you, or the
black phoebe that brings the six-legged
sun in its beak to perch the crossbeam
outside my window in a portent of plenty.
It might be rounding a curve to see
the vehicle already airborne kicking
up dirt midway through its flip and
coming to rest on its roof while I
pretend composure leaving panic to
those who would have it as I already
know there’ll be time for all that later.
And it might be the bright swath of
vapor cutting the sun in half, rain on
the way, signs inscribed on the horizon,
the thousand ways the day might intrude
itself into your dread or wishfulness,
the dreamladen nudges in the night that
whisper a butterfly has eaten the moon.
Joseph Gallo
February 29, 2012
post-time 9:19 AM
4 Comments:
Good one, Joseph. Very aware, with a steady vision, elegant. And the ending is Zen.
Thanks, Kyle. The end surprised me. As I hit the last key it seemed to stop and say: You're done.
Now that's Zen.
It's so refreshing, when in the mire of so many venues that language is so poorly used, slaughtered daily, you weave a tale or turn a simple phrase with such skill and insight.
Thank you for your kind comment, Ani. Happy to have you visit and please continue to offer your own insight as often as you wish. :-)
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