More of Charity's Photos
The way of the wind is strange
coming back to me
A calm in the eye a lullaby
a skeleton key
Lilt
Over the fence
in the side cedar
round the bird feeder—
a pendulum of seed and glass
three cup shaped clouds
going whiter passed
and you, my love are laughing—
wind in the wild grass.
Bi-focal
When we were young
the world was small.
A few long blocks
and that was all.
And now the world
is smaller still—
a mote in a beam
by the window sill.
Continuity
The uninterrupted wind
over spill-piles and pits
sang in the high grasses
rained in the ashes
cross the level plain
all in one motion unbroken
the same.
An Air
Sun shaped through the f-hole
your bow swan-graceful
The fiddle is living
goose-flesh tremolos
Juncos at the feeder
vie contented and rest
A whorl in the wind
is ever-changing tense.
The Hanged-Man
Head full of harbingers.
A makeshift cross. A stair.
The old knot has come undone
to no avail of tears.
Sand streams the fossil-stone.
The voice of what has been.
To mouth this unformed hollowness—
where do I begin?
Hands that brush the tall road-grass,
lines that glyph and thin.
Channels carved across the palm
branching divinations.
A white-rose heart. A beaten wing.
Two arcing yews. A ring.
The cold castle battlements.
Intermittent wars.
This voice that slowly holed a stone,
the same voice as before.
Winding round the stair in shadow
winding round the stair.
Here a fool is growing wise
and sentient and clear.
My knees prayer-bent, sin-bent lowered
in a peepshow prayer.
Nothing is still moving here
and nothing is still there—
take this— all of you and eat
my body given up for you
broken and replete.
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