Saturday, November 26, 2005
Kalime'ra Zoe
Winter has settled in, claustrophobic grey
over a carpet of leaves I never bothered to pile.
I've left them to do their whispering in peace.
It looks like rain, and it's cold.
The mailman hasn't come yet;
the difference that makes is none.
Last night I dreamt my father called
to say that Noah's Ark had run ashore,
empty save one gender-balanced pair.
He said the olive crop was poor this year
and the dove can find no branch
that can bear the long trip home.
congenital heart defect,
poetry
posted by Erin @
6:51 PM
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