Chunter of the wood stove, perpetual
sound and motion of disintegration;
ash falls with small explosions, red
flowers before the grey and dusty end.
So many days we have not seen the sun,
and the sky moves sluggish and slow,
the flock thickens… This heavy soil slops
under water where boots splash, and if you
listen hard, you can hear it pop and sigh.
Birds sing regardless. Spring is coming.
7 thoughts on “Groundwater”
And the ending of this piece holds out a sprig of hope after painting a picture of a dismal day. Always the optimist.
You know what? The sun just came out 🙂
It stayed out too 🙂
This poem is so likable, so likably crafted, from “red/flowers” to “pop and sigh.” Everything’s evocative, despite the gloomy, unchanging sky. Here’s what I wrote in my journal for the weather today: “It’s a pale gray day today. A nearly white and featureless sky.” At least the sky could break.
White and featureless as a sheep’s fleece. That’s about spot on. The flock wandered across the Atlantic then.