Poem November 2016


I never said

we weren’t sunk in glittering nature,

until we are able to become something else.

— Mary Oliver

Perches pique a matter of strategic

challenges, this chess game of

poached positions and rotating

flurries of chromatic energy,

as if the flash and dash of feathers

in flight was more about the dance

and not the flush of necessity’s plight . . .

as if we ourselves were not also

in restless rush, breathing out

the flux and plottings of our small

and uncertain profundities.

— Connie Ralston

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