“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, October 17, 2019
On the cusp
Setting one's sails
toward a life
and geography
we have long sought
becomes legacy
Maybe on Mondays
the horizon is too far away
to project any other color
but grey.
Anchoring ourselves
against the skylight
to the hours of shrinking shadows
where we are finding
bending light
a production
there was stillness to be
stolen, every now and then
dangling
the arc of our residence
may only be seen from great distances
and the greatest home
feels like there is nowhere else
to go.
Painting by Elioth Gruner, 'Fristy Sunrise', c. 1917 [Public domain].
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