Postcard 195

 

The time
is finally here
time to leave

The birds
are casting off
their moorings

The trees
are casting off
their leaves

wind
feet
rake plow


I curse the day
I threw a handful of poems
like dragon's teeth into the sea

Even there
you reap as you sow
every word its own demise

I skip
as the stones I throw
And do I wobble

I dont fly
What are these black wings seeking?
to flutter? to beat again?

Word to the wise:
when the waves retreat
don't go looking for the sea