poem

bouncing off the twiglets

n

Twiglet #17

 

 

The Rattling

They were a railroad crossing.
They were a river.
Storms rattled over them like trains
carting winter and lightning,
brought them birds’ nests,
hail and champagne.
They were locked windows.
They were dormant seeds. They shook,
were shaken out of bed, blinded.
They were a woman, still,
in the wet morning.

 

 

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6 thoughts on “bouncing off the twiglets”

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