Foggy Dawn
by Christopher Hileman
She said there’s room for
some kind of flash in the pan,
some flare up of hope,
some change in the shape
of slithery things to come
once the sun rises…
if the sun rises
on this latest weird damn day
of all the long days
that trail behind us
and are still rolling over
our crushed and shattered
arrangements and poise
(we had no right to them all)
as we lay them down
with the feathers shed
in our summer’s latest molt,
We call as swans do.
our bodies newly pink
and utterly bare.
Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 299.
Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.
Red Wolf Journal 