by L. Ward Abel
Morning dims, brightens, rain starts to pond
at the mountain’s base. Sunday the green, these
creases divide our great sloping continent
into chutes, they spill directions named by us
but the compass doesn’t care.
Limits, edges, endings, starts that mirror and
fail to tell a seed from fallen timber run through
my thinking, hover, land, dissipate, return
to leaving, all in the name of steam.
Where the knelling stops, south of roses
north of stones, I find comfort in my
breakfast and its lack of a seam
with the full-blown night.
L. Ward Abel lives in rural Georgia and is the author of two full collections and 11 chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017), The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019) and his latest full collection, Floodlit (Beakful, 2019).