Wednesday, April 4, 2012



An old strand of caterpillar silk at the wood’s edge shimmers in the sun. A crow keeps saying something urgent in four syllables. ---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 04-03-12

 It must go back to more magical times,
 when the sun rises like a fiery blossom
 over the ridge, and a lone crow croaks
 its monotone: kah-kah-kah-kah! Could
 it be the one lingering note, a sad refrain
 of awe and reverence for the sun god
 cut down since to a constantly ho-hum
 yo-yo motion over ridges, lakes, or bays,
 it must now be invisible like the wild
 dandelion cut wantonly off manicured
 lawns, even its shimmer on gossamer
 silkworm strands glistening on twigs
 attracts longer glances than metaphors
 that have lost their lustre in the hands
 of some inept moulder of words, crystal
 jars that could have held those sunrays
 at a standstill and lit the dark hallways
 that needed to warm-over the frigid
 goodbyes of lovers who have loved and
 lost, but know that mornings are new
 days with new sunrises at the wood’s edge?

 The crow on the branch must know a more
 urgent omen, it cackles its warning quite
 like the staccato of a grumpy tetrameter,
 as if it were demanding an answer to its
 question: What if the sun does not rise again?
 Or another: When will the sun not rise again?

—Albert B. Casuga

Out in time for the second sunrise, when the sun clears the near ridge and appears among the trees, an impossible blossom. ---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 04-02-12

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