Rain falls
on our tin roof; sharp taps of reality,
start and stop. I breathe myself back
into my body.
— Deborah A. Miranda, from “Almost Midnight,” in Split This Rock
Notes:
Inside the body of the world
there lives a vine
that awakens
in footprints and rootprints,
that touches our suffering
that heals the broken earth
that intertwines our pulses
until our breaths carry a new seed
within them.
While we sleep rain saturates the land
and in the morning
a luminescence
tunnels through fog.
I want to be the world, freshly washed.
~ Karissa Knox Sorrell, from “Luminescence,” Gravel Magazine
Notes: Poem – Memory’s Landscape. Photo: wsj.com, May 17, 2018, Rodrigo Garrido
It is dusk. The birds sweep low to the lake and then dive
up. The wind picks a few leaves off the ground
and turns them into wheels that roll
a little way and then collapse. There’s nothing like branches
planted against the sky to remind you
of the feel of your feet on the earth, the way your hands
sometimes touch each other. All those memories,
you wouldn’t want them over again, there’s no point.
What’s next, you ask yourself.
You ask it ten thousand times.
~ Roo Borson, “Ten Thousand” from Night Walk: Selected Poems
Notes:
Notes:
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