Wednesday, July 16, 2014

July 16th

The first veil falls much faster than the last.

Sometimes the threshold is enough.
Sometimes I want to make my home on the stone.
On the lee side of the stone, past the pillars,
things become too large for measure.

I live in Georgia now and the cicadas
mark the hours in the evening.
I never see them,
I only hear them calling.

Each evening, you hand me a bouquet
of gilded pine branches caught in the airy
places between the light and the ground.

I accept.