The day folds
The day folds like paper
into afternoon,
then crumbles
into the ball of night.
On the windows
I can see my reflection
against the black glass,
like a ghost
floating outside the window.
Haunting myself.
I drift away.
My ghost backs into the darkness
and perhaps turns to mist
and rises to the treetops.
I sit and think
of the sun on my face
as I lie beneath
the music of a cottonwood.
posted by Anonymous @ 12:33 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
Ah! Images that are so incredibly visual, well drawn and universal . . . we have all done this, we can all see exactly what is happening. Then comes metaphor and it all becomes poem with meaning. I love the folding, crumbling paper metaphor at the beginning, the serene ending of sun on your face and the music of the cottonwood . . . I especially love that one, pivotal line, dead center - "Haunting myself." Lovely.
The deliberate folding and crumbling of the paper also caught my attention but I was particularly taken with the idea of your ghost backing into the darkness and turning to mist amid the treetops. I am not sure why this soothes me but it does.
I hear once more the music of the cottonwood. Thank you.
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