Friday, April 05, 2019

Atlas Poetica, Number 36, February 2019


glissading down
steep mountainsides . . .
we are horses
with our snowy tails
streaming in the wind

every year
winter casts its spell . . .
like children,
we are bewitched anew
by the signature of snow

the length of night

yet again,
sleep eludes me . . .
an owl and I
ponder the eternal
question of identity

insomnia . . .
mice at play
the thin walls
of my dreams


we brew tea
from the dark leaves
of cat's whiskers
but first, you tickle me
with their stamens

we chase
each other across
cloud shadows,
nothing under our feet
but this prairie sky

we once played
in this tangled garden,
by the quiet fireworks
of bergamot and butterflies

No comments:

Post a comment