corners of a chair
rooms with door incomplete
unfashionably late
with all my thoughts...
the bells toll true but
there is not truth in the monastery
just monk wine sold for seeds
planted on the hillside
in plan view of the birds
who feast regularly...
thoughts unwind then rewind
once they are used and the
old ones that fall to the floor
create straw mats of comfort
when working late into the night
as the bells toll true
in the moonlight of the
poet's imagined village...
between my crossed legs
a cat lays watching words
fall to the floor
deciding not to investigate...
stools partially drawn out
sit of front of porcelain counters
where candles burn
and memories churn
in quiet solitude of the
East Tennessee countryside.
5Nov16
No comments:
Post a Comment