By: Katie M. Moss
Arc of the white bird’s wing frames itself against the circumflex sky
As my thoughts wander freely over the stone-peaked mountains--
Over the chimney-soot houses
Over the color-purple stained sky.
Sheen-golden slanted lightening of the golden, ripened sky.
Knots of the warm-pressed masses pass--
Past windows, streets, doors--
Heading towards a folding destination--
Line forming is a lackadaisical river bend--
Serpent-weaving, marred out of consciousness of thought.
Bands of color brace against the love-stained sidewalks--
covering the relics of the people left behind.
Of exploration never found.
Of dreams never reached .
Of generations left to find the work again.
Dropping commodities and cares in the sea of stillness that will never wash away.
We will simply fade and weave--
Like a bird’s white folded wing.