Sunday, March 7, 2010
by Gideon Burton
Percussive grace, as frequently and sure
as rivers washing silt to moonless shores
along that deep and silent corridor
in which both time and space collapsing blur.
Unlike the rain–whose fingers pry and twist
the faces we had readied, pale and low–
the drumming wind both warm and burning slow
discovers porous reasons we had missed.
Relentlessly the purity of stark
forgiving winter muzzles seeping greys,
announcing mutely what the sinner prays:
his angry words, her testimony, dark
enough to merit contrapuntal light,
more vibrant in its chiaroscuro fight.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgement of authorship
Photo: Keith Sketon, www.californiaphotographyworkshops.com