A. Anupama
I wonder if I’m noticing enough, even as I pause over fresh red leaves in the roadside next to the curb. There’s pleasure in writing poems, even breathless with exertion of reluctance. The last robin in our neighborhood to fly away for winter might have gone already, or might not yet. A poem waits and…
as with gratitude the pieces hold up and blossoms braid lights around dawn
Roses named "Midnight Blue" tipping toward the noon-time sky. Revelations of pink! And I just passed the 25th canto of Paradiso in my slow reading of The Divine Comedy. I don't miss Inferno anymore. Also reading Breton's Conversations: The Autobiography of Surrealism. Finally getting the backstory on art as I know it.
poet | artist 