Herons, ducks, and geese
rise
in morning splendor
from
a gold and violet dawn,
the
sun giving them due notice
to
migrate to the next best place
they
are unaware of.
They
will follow
the
poetry of sky,
already
sensing the pen
or
pencil on the pad
Wingtips
dip unpolished silver water,
ascend
to the great flapping and waving
of
flight known only to an author
not
in visible sight.
But
oh, in time, in time.
In
time
they
land on her shoulders, knees,
on
her hands and arms
and
in her poems,
where
they become
ink,
cursive and swooping,
dipping
on the off-white page
to
describe the feathered meaning
of
fowl.
They
speak of sedge and reeds
and
mud and the ether
that
binds it all together as one.
The
still words are moving,
the
meaning set and yet undone
with
the flapping of a page.
I
wish I could live,
write,
and see as one of these,
the
little ones who form
a
kingdom in search of a scribe
with
words that may
or
may not rhyme
depending
on what she sees
at
any particular time.
~William Hammett
Site Map
