Offline
The sound of morning
steps down a mountain,
not really a noise,
more the eyes explain
the sun walks
on water
to the other senses.
If it is Saturday
I sit in a chair that rocks
and overlooks the role
of the river,
how it holds a heron
in place by the ankles
until its long neck
forms the bones
at the end of hush
to let loose
such a wingspan
no amount of highway
is necessary
to know which direction
the day is going
by Charles Carr
Twitter: @selfrisinmojo
Editor’s Note: The imagery and personification in this poem remind the reader that poetry is an art, not simply communication.
Leave a Reply