White porcelain cup: bindweed swallowing a cloud The eye brims with light
The middle line arrived when I turned back to look more closely at the bindweed and noticed the cloud disappearing "into" the flower. Wednesday's line was joined by two others this morning, two days later. A gift. I don't generally use formal structures or rules in writing poetry; my pieces tend to evolve, creating (summoning) their own shapes. However, the haiku-like form's simplicity seemed to suit the snapshot's capture of an expansive August moment.
Magnificent evening walk at the reservation. I wondered if the particular dragonflies I love would be out, and there they were ... magic. It was like an enchantment observing them in all their glittering glory. As before, they invited my camera in, right up close. It was breezy, but they cling like little pennants to the plants. In fact, that's what they are named: Halloween Pennant, Celithemis eponina.
How invisibly it changes color in this world, the flower of the human heart.
I'm the author of Stirring the Mirror (2007) and Teaching Bones to Fly (2003), both from Bitter Oleander Press, and Domestic Weather (2004), winner of the 2003 Uccelli Press Chapbook Contest. My writing is anthologized in No Boundaries: Prose Poems by 24 American Poets, PP/FF: An Anthology, Graphic Poetry, Riverine: An Anthology of Hudson Valley Writers, and elsewhere. Additional author information and links to online work are in the sidebar. I'm also a visual artist. Except where otherwise noted, all art and photos are my work and may not be used without permission.