Good Morrow, poemfriends. What day is it? Isn’t it Morrow? Or Saturday, I suppose. I’ve written these last few very fast, so, I’m going to slow down tonight. It is big sleepy August here, and this might be a quiet and sleepy poem.
A Quiet Night
Here we are, young and rural, bloodwild and glowing, all young and stupid and coming upwith the dawn. Here we are, all country and dancing and kicking up dust, not thinking of single thing but the time and its clouds. All the things lifting right up like glass mistaken for crystal get cloudy depending on the light and the sundown.
Depending on the lowering light and the rocks at dusk, depending on the temperatures on the riverbank in the lowlight, there might be the delicate hand of the muses, reaching up from the muddy bank like reed,
There might be willows that curl around the ankles and draw us feet-down into the mud, and there might be voices in the sludge that grasp and pull us quick down, there may be sounds under the muck that call to us quick and loud and insistent.
Ciome back now, so calls the river, come back and come back to stay.
Happy Saturday! Is this quiet? I’m not sure, but it felt more thoughtful than the rest.