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Chandra
A hawk, moments after dawn,
circling.
Somewhere,
somewhere at the edge of near;
a somewhere known to the pessimistic
as far,
as there,
as not,
not
Here.
Not near.
Occasionally, a flashed shadow
over the sun-bleached apricot sky.
Just to the West.
Where the yellower light spills now
over the half-new roof and well-appointed chimney
of farm/field/stone.
Into the valley of clinging green
and the stone wall edge of the Farm
where the trees have one and all
forgot the late date.
They’ve
steadfastly, triumphantly, unarguably
argued for their summer-earned greens.
The moon is so high as to be unknown.
There above the maple.
There above the shred-ragged, yellowing
banana leaves -
the makeshift windvane of wavily oversea kelp.
Unknown
to the crook of neck,
to the poor sleepers,
to the cheap pillow resters.
It is such a slight sliver
that
it gives a cool shiver
to my flesh.
The momentary thought of,
a splinter of wood getting under skin.
The slight sharp sliver of dim silver moon
seems so sharp as to
threaten to deflate the dim blue,
the pale blue
October sky.
Copyright ©
Stephe Watson
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