for George
December 20, 1924 - September 23, 2009
Nearing the serrated edges of a stubborned sleep
There came a splintering of tiny beads, a sound faint
Through the whispering, insistent night.
I settled, turned my head; listening,
Floating on a bed of stars in a house
With no walls or ceilings
To find the latitude of sound and let
The silver translucence tumble as
The no of nothing up, down or firm swirled off into the
Traveling dark; I guess the fox's quick staccato yips
Across the road, in the field beyond the hedge.
© 2011 Wrexie Bardaglio, Co-editor, Spiracle
2 comments:
This haunting poem has me questioning: Where is the threshold of a house with no walls or ceilings? What connects the primal sounds in the wild to the so-called more protected listener, floating somewhere between wakefulness and dream -- remembering?
Levitational. Transformational. Transporting. Language and rhythm seamlessly nudge us inward - where true inner peace and contentment resides.
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