I came by that dusty petrified wood
on a desert ridge west of Fry
Canyon, we were resting on a ledge
in the sun, listening to a rock
wren, deep in the realm of thought.
I brought dusty home and cleaned
the dried mud off us both,
now he rests on the table
and I'm in the old wooden chair.
We are long past our prime,
my dusty friend, we have rough
edges, cracks and knot holes,
we also have a glass of wine
to rinse clear the mind.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Rough Edges
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3 comments:
another good piece, rich with the detail of the great outdoors. I especially like the stanza break between 1 and 2. I get you listening to a rock and to a rock wren. both highly listenable, one more larg0 and profundo than the other.
Hey - would you be interested in reading in Seattle in August? Let me know: rwellsrwells@mac.com
That glass of wine rinsed the old wood to a good clarity as your poem reveals.
very nice - got me thinking about why we bring objects home with us from our adventures and the link we create with them. thanks.
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