The nouns go first, no matter
how fast we hold on to sentence sense,
like penguins, black and white,
who slither along the ice,
useless wings flapping, until they
fall at last into the cold, cold water.
There, those birds so awkward on land,
fly through deep seas, at home.
And so I do not think
beyond nouns. It is enough
the seasons turn, and the sky
this morning brightened with promise.
Penguins (Gianfranco Goria on Flickr)
Check out what others have written for Octpowrimo, a month long challenge to write a poem a day.
Check out what others have written for Octpowrimo, a month long challenge to write a poem a day.
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