Sylvia

I think of you as a bird, forever flying into the same pane of glass, in a lighthouse perhaps,
so that there was no respite from the constant flinging.  And what a fright it must have  been
to see yourself, reflected, bloodier and bloodier as you waxed and waned in your attacks.

I read your poem today, “Black Tree in an Orange Light.” Your first verse said,

“Tell me what you see in it
the pine tree like a Rorschach-blot
black against the orange light”

and I saw a brain, fired up by a lightning bolt.

 


David Smedley spends his free time writing poetry, free climbing, and hiking.  


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