Tuesday, September 2, 2014

From a draft in progress:  possibly another western Pennsylvania poem, possibly set in the early 1980s, possibly dealing with schizophrenia, certainly dealing with isolation 

A bridge is wet with river water, wet with tears.
The cherries bend low to listen.

Their branches strain against the small
wind of your thoughts, the jumbled

meaningless words, the old scents and computations.
Once again, nothing known as love understands you—


Ruth said...

I hear a haunting melody in the background of this.

Carlene said...

I agree with Ruth; there is a melody at work. And to add another "what if" to the mix, I am sensing Alzheimer's Disease...? Clearly some confusion, overlain with sweetness as well.

Dawn Potter said...

Glad you're hearing all of this. That's just what I'm aiming for.