not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

autobiographical landscape

Morning again.  Wind.  Shadows
of clouds trench and fill the fallow ground.

A difficult light staggers across the stubble.

Crows drag their saws toward the trees.
Everybody knows they exaggerate their torments.

If you begin with, "I remember..."
you must translate "the foot's worn threshold,
an hour is the doorway..."

Reader whom I will never see again,
the sun throws its hooks into the frost,

and wind is dialogue - the light comes and goes,

comes and goes.

poem by: james owens