Thursday, April 19, 2007

#361: April 19, 2007

Out in the field, a throng of wildflowers:
each lifts the tiny burden of its head
unsteadily, and spatters drops of red
upon green blades, as though some claw had scoured
the meadow's skin, rubbed raw; nothing beside
but sparse, elongated shadows of trees
that twitch and lock their branches in the breeze
to sieve the light, and show the fawn earth pied.

A minute's walk returns me to my chair,
computer screen, and three blank, not-quite walls;
fluorescent bulbs banish the shadows' play,
and black glass separates the here from there--
too thick to hear the flitting songbirds' call,
too dark to watch the sunlight fade away.

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