It’s the throat of the cave,
the dripping of time
in the passage of dark.
Glossy tumescent jewels,
decades in the making,
hang in adornment
reaching for their
earthbound reflections
or tickling the puddles
with occasional attention.
The strange handwriting
of rain writes its presence
in delayed essays
ages in creation.
We are swallowed
by the beauty
as it digests our imagination.
No comments:
Post a Comment