sailor’s warning

1 12 2003

red sky at dawn; on
the empty street, like embers,
three leaves catch the sun.

(this i wrote several mornings ago, if “wrote” is an accurate word for something you invented in your head while refusing to crawl out from under the covers. today deserves a mad snow poem, or maybe a blizzard-of-work poem, but i don’t happen to have one of either lying around…)




One response

1 12 2003

i think there are a lot of poems in your house, just quietly waiting to be written. or maybe there are just a lot of words and echoes, caught in silent eddies, like the cats’ fur on the stairs. one was writing itself in my head as i was sitting in your chair, watching you work. but, i didnt write it down and its all faded now. i bet its there, though. just waiting to be Felt and pulled onto paper.
*kiss* your house is as magical as you are.

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