Commonplace

Dawn Potter

I sing the spell of your sentences,

whipping into sunlight, like clean sheets on a line.

Chunks of ice crowd the gutters,

and the snowmelt air trembles in a cloud

as sweet as the cataract in an old dog’s eye.

Oh, Age of Bronze, Age of Despair!

Let every comma cup our new breath.

[first published in Cardinal Flower Journal (September 2015)]