Tuesday, December 04, 2012

Turning Sky

The moon rises over Mississippi.
A dish of boiled peanuts sends
a ripple of vapor over her face: but quiet,
and long lines of shadow grow.

Say, in the north country, far away,
the frost is buckling interlace,
Celtic knots that will burn away with the sun.
Say the little girl with immodest hair

can't be in two places at once: even so
at waking she holds the earth of each
in one dreaming hand, and the same sky turns
with bright enameled birds:

herons stalk, and a sudden rushing pair
of pileated woodpeckers
answers the taste of home
and the shine of her willful head.


JJS said...

Stunner, Dale. The second stanza's language especially went straight to the core for me.

Dick said...

Just right, Dale. Love this.

Lucy said...

That's just lovely, all of it, but 'the same sky turns with bright enameled birds' catches at me especially.

Dale said...

Thanks all! xo

Merris said...

I am deeply touched by the artful picture you paint of my duality. And my often unruly hair. xox