(Poem by Wendy Howe )

Sunset, and birds shadow the bare
limbs of a tree,
posing still as spindles
on which the day can wind
her flaming yarn.

I want to reach out,
prick my finger on a song
sparrow's beak
and fall asleep listening
to time unveil another story.

It could be one about the woman
who sweeps snow crystals
and burnt matchsticks from her porch,

the young man who's pulling
the cork off his cologne bottle
as he waits to board a dinner train,

or myself, face slanted
against a window catching
the distance as it slides
through the woods and glitters

like the pale satin
lining my coat sleeve. Something
that insulates the hour
before night fall,

and wants me to wander
up the hill welcoming
a stranger.
© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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L'arbre aux oiseaux

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L'arbre aux oiseaux

© 2011,

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