Tuesday, January 3, 2017

the arrowhead of a poplar livid in the sun

last hours of the day
without the sun beating the foamy snow
to meringue

the bushes blistered and worn
were drenched with light
and the salt-snow fell everywhere

everywhere a tracing made out 
of light and dark
the fertile descriptions told in passing glimpses

I watched the road
filled with wrapped parcels of trees
the arrowhead of a poplar livid in the sun

main street a donkey of sound
maybe we were dancing in our cars
to whir of the wheels     but certainly

it felt old by the time we got home
the groceries put away and the slight meal eaten
the holidays over and silence descends

nothing like this moment when the book opens
and the poem sits in  your mind
like the beating heart of a child

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