Day 26: One Month of Magic
A rough ghazal:
Everything I Learned about Magic
Was painted before my birth by Winslow Homer. Storm
warnings beyond the deep. Doesn’t every story unfold in storms?
The Gulf Stream. God or light embraces blurred sails too far
away. Cane stalks, green on broken boards, unsold in storms.
Inside the Bar of sand, a woman’s skirts open to wind as men
hold oars, sails. They don’t touch her, lips strong and bold in storms.
Eagle Head, Manchester, Massachusetts (High Tide). Bathing
dresses wrung heavy. Startled dog. A woman’s hair a gold storm.
Weaning the Calf. The heifer and the boy, rope tight between
her head, his hands. Mama cries before the looming cold of storms.
Cannon Rock. Breaking waves like tops of T’s. Everything
begins with rocks. I descend to salt, few handholds in storms.
A rough ghazal:
Everything I Learned about Magic
Was painted before my birth by Winslow Homer. Storm
warnings beyond the deep. Doesn’t every story unfold in storms?
The Gulf Stream. God or light embraces blurred sails too far
away. Cane stalks, green on broken boards, unsold in storms.
Inside the Bar of sand, a woman’s skirts open to wind as men
hold oars, sails. They don’t touch her, lips strong and bold in storms.
Eagle Head, Manchester, Massachusetts (High Tide). Bathing
dresses wrung heavy. Startled dog. A woman’s hair a gold storm.
Weaning the Calf. The heifer and the boy, rope tight between
her head, his hands. Mama cries before the looming cold of storms.
Cannon Rock. Breaking waves like tops of T’s. Everything
begins with rocks. I descend to salt, few handholds in storms.