A Spirograph Tells Our Past to Wait
Andira Dodge (@wordrummager)
It’s a windstorm. Swallows and ghosts
take turns filling the center
with spare limericks and stretched Silly Putty;
a cracking sky is the only melody.
We kissed a brief ‘hello’ – so much like
a ‘50’s pleated skirt, pressed for time,
it’s a wonder we don’t fly kites
in our sleep.
A week ago we saw signs
in the bellies of starlings
but after reading the newspaper,
fresh and grey,
we could only sigh in an era’s bereavement.
Spectacular color fills old barnwood
as it splinters. Cohen aside.
The surprise of a spinning June
is in road construction and its detours.