Friday, November 9, 2012
Poetry Friday in the Month of All Souls
She raised the window, heard the sycamore
Breathing darkness, cool invisible strands
Of air that seemed to lift her by her hands,
Stand her, turn her, loose her pinned-up hair,
Slip her through the screen. The blue wind bore
Her wingless body over fields and ponds
Till, skimming chimneys, clotheslines, raveled ends
Of cedar woods, she came to where the shore
Bared its one white shoulder. There, the moon
Drew a thumbnail-line as though to trace
A road where the sea pushed back the land.
Leaving her yellow nightgown on the sand,
Her image in the water's wrinkled face,
She waved like drying laundry and was gone.
Brief Light: Sonnets and Other Small Poems
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