This is another revision of the day, a poem that sat untouched for a decade and then came to life again. First draft and now this draft are quite different. I think this draft retains some of the energy of the younger man that wrote it, but hopefully it is enhanced by the more refined ear of the now (hopefully!) more mature man.
Antler and Acorn A deer antler and an acorn so little to find on ground and yet the full import of world spills out of them just as the river of autumn making quiet way through escort of boulders is cast primordially out of what cannot be seen not even when the woman stands alone in night meadow unafraid of anguish, or when the first light of daybreak washes over far slope of oak everything -- like tears and the round arms of the moment -- falls into crevices that only fingers released into death can feel not the cold death but the other one the death that's running now through dry grass under trees moon whipping through branches like a sickle it's a hot running, a can't-get-enough running but it's also a standing still a swoon into what was never left and all the while by the river, alder leaves are reflecting green and brown in a pool that could be her eyes or her eyes could be the pool and into them I am forever looking to see an acorn that fell, an antler that fell a night that fell through the birth veils of oblivion and died running in a morning that never wasn't.
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AuthorWalker Abel Archives
July 2017
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