A poem by Debra, that enhaunces this picture WIND We were born into a world so recently convulsed that dust still drifted up from brick quicksands Displaced persons in the millions wandered holding crumpled photographs Flocks of the dead milled, alighting on skeletal lindens Nothing the rain could wash away We were helpless to build up words that would mend a single pity In this land the wearing of red poppies has waned but not there where remembrance still grows in homely gardens, beside the tea roses Too many secrets composted in new asphalt Harvest reflections glint off the interface Stone dries and the searching wave returns no more How near we live, and our words grow impoverished from the absence of nature which once lived within a walk of fields and ponds sequestered now between blocks of concrete I would face west except my window faces east I would sketch each needle on the pine bough Each leaf—if it would only stand still—on that dogwood Tell the wind to stand still No nib can outrace its sweep © 2013 Debra-Laurent
Posted on: Sun, 03 Aug 2014 03:08:08 +0000
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