Letter from out here in Poetry


Dearest reader,

I write to you from Poetry

out here peripheral and near to dream

where the sun spattered trees

sentinel in autumn’s air

and the detailed sky is entirely held together

by voices of pardelotes and peewees

who call and call for summer.

The season shifts and exhales

at 3 am and slow pulses align

poems grow best in dark soft night

and bloom fantastic morning’s beam

birdsong, sky, clarity.


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