147/365 - 151/365

As words fail—complete,
dusk drops a greening mayfly
on my book’s arched page.

My personal ghosts
reappear, yes once again.
Persistent egrets.

Across autumn’s cusp
of sky—seeming just in reach—
field hawk lifts her wings.

The autumn sun slipped
on the horizon, breaking
through a spider’s web.

Clusters of dragon
flies coast over wild grasses—
darting in autumn.

Knotted groups of bulbs—
yellow cannas— planted in
early October.

A few days ago I read a poem by Temple Cone titled “Prayer for the Body” and found an element of inspiration for a poem of my own. Yet tonight I cannot find the source again. His work still shows the original notions from before—I just cannot realize the specific tone which bridged the distance between his sense of reality to my own writing environment.

We moved bookcases around to add a greater sense of space to the office. It helped somewhat. It just happens the population of books remain heavy—

A waste of a day.
Waiting for my allergies
to leave my system.


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