(Poem by Wendy Howe )

Near forty, I have this dream
of shedding skin, wandering
like shapely mist
over Summer's bluff, her island clock

where blossoms take
the wind's pulse
and stone casts its volcanic shadow
on the grass.

I want to become
the airiness of dawn
that clings to everything else
but myself --

Bell or bird song,
the scent
of candle or lamp passing
through a bungalow shutter

but most of all, the sweet ash --
words lovers have kindled
when making up, their argument
adrift on the tide

where it's seaweed-tangled
and pecked into nothing
by gull or cormorant
diving toward food

while daylight ripples in,
a silken gut string
vibrating with this need
for renewal.
© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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