I ask only for a door ajar
so I can peek out, listen to night songs
among foghorns, the dolorous belling
of buoys in wet distance.
Instead, you fling it open to the moon
intent on her morning path, silver thread
spooling but frayed near the end–
open it wide to unleash quiet women
who arrive on the rain, dance and sing
beneath my eaves.
And then as only magic men can,
you peel back the sky, hold to my hips
while I reach out beyond the sill
to rearrange stars, spill spells,
learn what there is in each brief visit.
by Patricia Wallace Jones
Editor’s Note: Magic happens in unexpected places. Sometimes in the rain. Sometimes via an open door. Sometimes both of these things converge through imagery and rhythm and a poem is born.
Announcement: CLOSED to submissions until August 20, 2015. I will resume reading on August 20, 2015. Daily poems will resume on August 24. Thank you!
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