The Choke
Soft rain,
rainbow swirl, rain-blow.
A day much like fall, but not
fall. It’s the opposite season.
A Luna moth is grounded
on my deck. Oceans
collect on warped boards.
Wings, grass and trees
make minuscule jerks as
slow drips break
the silence.
He’s drowning beneath the green
tent. This death will take longer
than the clouds that brought it
will take to pass.
It all looks clean now. It looks
clean.
Michelle Buchanan 06/03/2010
2 comments:
Hi, Michelle. --I really like this poem. I especially like the very quiet understated last lines at the end.
Thanks Lyle. I always appreciate your comments. Haven't been writing in several years so I am trying to get it back.
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