Above us, the myrtle trees darken
the air. A paint grazes in the gold grass
on the other side of the road, his mane
blown white, a cloud of sulfur butterflies
at his knees. We look for mountain lion
tracks by the water— the slow creek floored
with deep yellow leaves, periwinkle shells.
We agree to come back before the summer
ends, but never do.
I know, I know, I’m terrible at feedback because I’m always fawning instead of frowning. However, I really enjoyed your poem. I think the length is so perfect for the piece, as if any more or less wouldn’t be quite right. My favorite thing about it, though, is that the ending line begins with the word “ends”… I just found that so [insert well-phrased “I liked that thing” here]. Anyhow, I promise to try harder at thinking of critical things to say.
ReplyDelete