Saturday, February 14, 2015


Merely the hem of the skirted storm, pretty and neat, and small.

Canada Geese dropped to the pond in our midst.

We, dropping to sleep, heard a single soft honk,
one meant to assure: All clear.

Morning light scatters.
A still surface shields more fluid dark shimmers;
rafts of icy scrim reflect the snow.

Inlets form two tangent pools—ventricles of one heart.

Pliant as skin, ice yields to the geese. They bead the snow-banked edge,
assembling as though the pond might speak.
In reply they'll compose themselves
as a poem.


For the sky, the silver of tarnished sterling; on the ground, petals
a pale rose.

©2015 Ravenna Taylor 

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