Hail decapitates
the daffodils. The sidewalks
haven't been dry in months.
A week into April
the air from my lungs still plumes
like steam from a kettle.
Slow exhaustion
sucks at each hollow bone
leaving clean emptiness.
The bones of birds
are full of air-spaces linked
to their lungs.
I am becoming a bird
instead of a steam engine.
I am becoming a windmill.
I am a bone flute.
I am air,
I am empty of air.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
amazing flow..
ReplyDeleteGreetings,
ReplyDeleteWelcome join us,
Thanks for the time, a free verse is accepted,
Your poetry rocks. Hope to see you in
xx
Your first stanza made me sad for you - we are enjoying a glorious spring here, but the rest made me gasp in admiration at where the idea took you.
ReplyDeleteI tremember winters and longing for cold spring to turn to summer...
ReplyDeleteGraphic and bleak. Soon to be superceded, I hope!
ReplyDeleteReally like the juxtaposition of the heaviness of winter, contrasting with the weightlessness of flight, of air.
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThat first line is just stunning!
ReplyDeletePlumes like steam from a kettle
ReplyDeleteis a lovely line. Nice piece!
And like a bird you flit from theme to theme. Lovely!
ReplyDeleteOh, yes!
ReplyDeleteMoves from violent beauty into a series of exquisite transformations... love it.
ReplyDeleteOf course it is true. All of it. (Funny, I wrote about birds hollow bones, too, earlier in the month.)
ReplyDeleteBeautifully done.
simple excellent, I too is still waiting for spring to really open in my area.
ReplyDeletewww.thequietone.net