Comments Inbox
| |
About This Poem
Late Equinox Acrostic
Listless, the rains come falling on empty hands.
Ashen hands, that stirred the last embers, worried
the skies would not give way against the raging sun
even though the forecast called and called, no rains.
Entering like ants, the clouds wisp and invade.
Quiescence of smoke, like camouflage for sky
unclear of intent to blind or hunt or cackle,
illicit due to negligence and addressed the same,
nebulous rain, becomes our hoped for refrain.
Outside the mirror of our longing for rest, exploded
X-fire in color, sound and fire, progress toward our prayers.
8-27-2012
|
|
|