A softening of syllables,
a bright blur
on the vegetables,
the humidity we listen in
perceptible, and the sky beyond
dip-dyes to blue.
Concrete made a city
of our scenery, but the morning
is yielding, otherworldly,
and the distance, however real, thins
to see-through, interrupted
by the air between.
This poem was a featured post on the site Ill Seen, Ill Said.
Two responses
•David E., Nov 26, 2009 at 6:15 am
Great poem, Joa! Thanks for keeping the site alive and well.
•Bruce, Dec 22, 2009 at 7:44 am
Each time I read one of your poems, I think its the best yet. You always manage to put your finger on how something is. Thanks for sharing you view of things with us.