Swallows and Sauté Pans

By Silver Spun Sand
Wed, 19 Mar 2014
- 2588 reads
12 comments
We were in the field, picking
the first of the spring greens,
when overhead – the whoosh of wings.
Wild geese, with their clipped cries;
the shape of their beaks chiselling
the skies...
evening dripping from the trees
and in the pan – the leaves
of our picking, turn an even deeper
shade of green,
even though, presently,
they are more dead
than alive.
And we know we, too, are dying;
growing older every day – never
to be young again.
And then,
you ask me to, please, pass the salt;
delicious, they tasted...those fresh,
spring greens
as we sat there, lapping up
the impermanence
of it all;
the sunset, the snowfall, the rainbow,
the first sighting of swallows...the
total eclipse.
Not fade away,
didn’t someone once say?
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Comments
I think this is beautiful. As
Permalink Submitted by catherine poarch on
I think this is beautiful. As usual you swoop effortlessly from those things above us to what's on the table before us!
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Much enjoyed, Tina. and it
Much enjoyed, Tina. and it has a lovely flow to the words and the interwoven thoughts. Rhiannon
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Heavy when those thoughts
Heavy when those thoughts come but better shared together over the fruits of a days labour. Finding beauty in the ordinary makes life so worth while at the end of the day.
Bee
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Hi Tina
Hi Tina
Lovely poem. I like the idea of evening dripping from the trees.
Jean
Jean Day
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Lovely simple images that we
Permalink Submitted by Starfish Girl on
Lovely simple images that we can all relate to.
Thank you.
Lindy
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