for F.T.
"But In Contentment . . ."
But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.
Wallace Stevens, “Sunday Morning”
A perfect late August morning
And across the yard from me
She is sitting in the morning sun
Though there is a pine tree between us
And all I can see is her wrist and hand
Resting on the edge of the deck railing
In a perfect curving
Like a bird’s breast,
Her fingers unfolding like wing tips
From the nest of her palm,
Her hand hovering in the air . . .
And in this light, this moment,
Across the distance between us,
It is my longing that lifts and soars
Into the still air like birdsong.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 1081 times
Written on 2015-08-27 at 18:39
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