Thursday, October 05, 2006

Leaves Of Glass

It's called a quartina; sort of a shorter version of a sestina.

Ever since the sun first rose,
shining green through leaves
dancing in the dawn wind,
light like shifting stained-glass—

I’ve been sitting with this glass
or half a glass, of vin rose
that I can’t finish and won’t leave.
How did I come to wind

up here, alone, listening to wind?
Will another turning of the glass
find me walking among roses
or sleeping under falling leaves?

By my elbow, my book’s leaves
turn one by one in the wind.
Too delicate, this house of glass
to withstand the storm on the rise...

Better a green leaf in the wind
than a dried rose under glass.


poefusion said...

You certainly know how to get one thinking about all things surrounding us. How fragile they can become. This is a beautifully written piece. Have a nice night.

Anonymous said...

I'm always amazed when a coherent and imaginative poem emerges from a set form. I suppose part of the mechanics lies in choosing words that can be used both as nouns and verbs.