July, 2005
This moving skin on twisted spine
Of sunken rock, thick clays of time,
Recites the prose of melted snow—
its Ripple-rhythms swirl and flow
Into this metered line.
Wind meets water to combine
Lifting sage and columbine
Eddies spill them as they go
Along this moving skin
Poetry cannot define
The ancient grace and aquiline
Formations of the dark below.
In depths the breathing do not know,
Forever on ghost shadows wind
Beneath this moving skin.
1 comment:
Groovy rhythms that suggest flow of the water. That's nice. A little archaic for my tastes.
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