All kin, we sleep in
The small emancipated kingdom
That is my own country; dawn finds
Them motionless but for the
Steady breathing, filling
Soundlessness;
Then daybreak:
Bark, bleat, birdsong
Signal their return to
Those other nations,
Air filled again with their
Mysteries.
© 2011 Wrexie Bardaglio, Co-editor, Spiracle Journal
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2 comments:
Like the breaking of a fast, the breaking of day nourishes, as soundlessness
fills with sounds. How beautifully this poem breathes life into the day.
Not a single shade and color or, shadow and light wasted -- this is tonalism at its frameless finest.
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