Skip to content

Log Out

×

Poetry

Something has descended
   like feathered prophecy.
         Someone has offered the world
   a bowl of frozen tears,

has traced the veins and edges
   of leaves with furred ink.
         The staff is stiff as the strings
   of a lute.

And, day by day, the tiny windows
   crack their cardboard frames
      seizing the frail light. The sun,
   moving through

these waxy squares, undiminished
   as a word passing
         from mind to speech.
   Every breath a birth,

a stir of floating limbs within me.
   I stay up late and waken early
         to feel beneath my feet
   the silence coming.

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Receive ImageUpdate, our free weekly newsletter featuring the best from Image and the world of arts & faith

* indicates required