Thursday, July 30, 2009

O.I. poem #8

the screen door could not hush itself from squealing,
the rain snaps against the wood,
mosquitoes decorate the lantern
while night sits outside like a porch swing, humming.
the trees are hissing against the windows
and tear ducts press their faces to us
as we finish penning the grandiosity of nature.
This is a natural phenomenon, to be a bystander of earth
transforming, summoning the chorus of its worship
in the wind.

the city does not learn to love the land like this,
does not teach the foot how to kiss the ground gentle
and steady. We feel our way home through forest
and train our eyes on how to listen to darkness.

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