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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4581 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Turning Pages David Durham This girl of mine reached the pinecone from the pine. And the pine went along to look for the tiny feather’s song. -Federico Garcia Lorca Beneath ponderous shade the flight of a bird is muffled in the composition of ink on pulp. Sullen bird, unfix your muted wing. I press a fallen green leaf between finger and thumb. Garcia Lorca reflects an echo, memory of her, that crumbles off ledges of acid free paper and scatters a clutter of thoughts among talus and debris. A stone recollects its fragility. Among sego lily and wild rose angles of regret grow at my feet. Ponderosa pines gather wind, spill pollen into unexpectant palm. My heart blooms even beneath the breath of her shadow. |
