Thursday, January 29, 2015


wings indigoblue

Wings of ink expanding,
silent body held,
feathered grace demanding;
so we all are called.

Held in world material,
cold and hard beneath,
silent in its judgement;
angels at our feet.

Drawn upon the moment,
traced in dusted call,
tears do course eternal;
grieve because we fell.

1 comment:

  1. Very interesting, Ros. I love the many textural elements of the poem, as well as the balance of the stanzas. This is lovely. I keep repeating the first line.