Anne Woodborne

Autumn numbs the plumb line
of reaping the stillness, the lingering
end of dusty cobwebs, musty with staleness.
The gusty south-easter blows
about the blotted spots of Jackson Pollock.
Thinking about the new leaves of flower-dotted hills
keeps winter’s sleep wilting into wakefulness.
I feel a fresh newness, a clean sweep to
spring- a tring of a bell, the note of hope,
of expectant, searing reason, groping for
day prayers as they stray unbidden.
First on my list is to listen.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s