I sit above the falls
I cannot see the lake below the cliff.
The overlook is dressed in fog white. The only tree
visible has a red fox squirrel fleeing a territorial
grey squirrel chasing, jealous of his female poets.
Many times I have come here to use the cliff
as a spring board to past relationships, seeking poetry,
and this morning is awash with editorial
finches singing solos, choir notes, duets.
Pinky, a nickname for her skin tones, resides
in this vastness as white as an empty page
moans rather than speaks in rhyme.
I recreate an image of her face.
Emptiness returns. It is she who hides
rather than perform front and center on this stage
that is my life. I sit for a long moment, time
enough to remember how in our naked embrace
she always refused to open her eyes.
What a grand weaving of nature and writing! “editorial finches” and “moans rather than speaks in rhyme” Sounds like a very inspiring place!
vastness as white as an empty page
The groaning of the blank page and its vast whiteness were some nice details. I also love that you have a special spot for writing. Mine happens to be on my back porch. 🙂
When I was fortunate enough to live where the earth rises up to meet the sky as Mr. Still would say, I, too, had a place that would help me be the best I could be. Then one had to walk back down. You poem took me back. Thank you.