Saturday, March 10, 2012

beginning






The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon’s young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by the elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward is own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.





~ James Wright
 from Collected Poems
photo by Gerhard Richter
with thanks to crashingly beautiful




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