Wednesday, November 4, 2015


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)]


Jean said...

Fabulous, Dawn! Thank you for sharing this poem.

Dawn Potter said...

Thanks for reading, Jean!