I'm having trouble getting started on new things, but happy to be revising. Here's one from August 25, much more refined I think.
On Being The Muse
That day I am attending to the olive groves
just before sunrise— to their image from the terrace at Monte Zuzzu.
The oldest trees toss their heavy crowns on the light wind,
and all through the groves is kiss-kiss-kiss as olive leaves
play each other. The pale, almost platinum sky is about to assume its rosy veil.
All of it part of the record of my existence.
I am alone on the patio in my white nightgown
staring over the groves to the Adriatic
which the sun has not yet shaped into a cymbal
that will ring with the shrieks of gulls following the freighters—
I am inventing that sound;
being so far inland, being so far up the terraces,
being half asleep and in thrall to the olives’ music,
being the only thing
awake, a gleam on water,
the note of a song not yet heard.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment