Sunday, June 1, 2014

Our Shadows Pass

                                              pinions tucked into shoulder blades

                                              I stop breathing
                                              as our shadows pass

                                              on the twilight lit stairs
                                              your black feathered shine ............... receding

Painting: John Sokol


  1. Mysterious poem. I like it. I think of Poe, and my stairway solicitude getting stronger here in my wobbly mid-60s. Often pass my iridescent younger selves up and down. They can't hear my cautions. Idiots. Fine poem!

    1. Stairs have so many connotations ... Thank you for responding, Geo.

  2. black feathered shine...............receding. This produces a whole host of images for me.


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