The Foretelling
The word itself is a wall
made of windows
and broken frames.
Mind moves over
a seascape, builds bridges
between the waves.
Now you are doing it,
that thing,
creating vineyards
with buckets of sand.
The script, the writing,
it is a harvest sown
by a form yet unborn.
It means nothing,
yet nevertheless
wine pours
then all antecedence,
all inference
returns to scratches
upon a cooling mud
and it is that mud,
the mud on your hands
that speaks.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment