This House

This morning, I read a wonderful poem, This City by Eugenia Leigh. The first few lines captured me; so captured, I used/borrowed/pilfered those very lines and crafted them into the poem I share here.

Thanks, Ms. Leigh.

Image result for da vinci wings

This House

could use more seraphs.
Anything with wings, really–

a finch, a sparrow,
an owl, perched
on a stack of old books,
lost in contemplation:
sunlight’s heft,
the embroidery of shadow.,

Perhaps a jay,
as blue as sorrow,
will swift
from room to room,
while butterflies
disturb the air
above my head,
a cloud of spirit
and panic.

Vultures warm their wings,
spread as wide as fate,
set atop the chimney,
its red brick chiseled
by rain, stained by the ash

a dragon exhales
sleeping on the lawn,
melting the plastic flower pots
we’ve placed too close
to its heart.


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