Poetry Blogs (too much)

Let there be water.

Let it be called pond.

Let trunk and branch and leaf arise around it,

Walling the sky’s mirror against too much.

Let small plump birds paddle its silk surface,

Their calls echoing ancient creation.

Let stiff winged things fly and dart about

Above stiff legged things that skim

A criss cross the water’s top.

And let beneath flash silver through...

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