The Street

The neighborhood is old, you understand, a little shabby,

a little frayed at the cuffs.

Sparrows baptize their young

in asphalt tidal pools;

thick white spires of foxglove

and lupine bless the air.

Sometimes, the geraniums tumble

over the edge of the window box,

playful as dolphins

blurred into other dimensions

of time; we can almost commit

their wisdom to heart.

In rain, the slate roofs

glimmer like old pewter coins.

People migrate in and out

of houses, of dreams,

the ebb and flow

golden and mysterious as a child's faith.

Sometimes, a little light

slips through the spruces,

through the windows, to catch the kettle's

copper flank or the way a woman

leans toward the mirror

of her beliefs. We walk

out of the houses, into the rain,

on moon-worn stones;

our shoulders touch, words rub

against the moment like a cat

twining around and through

life after life.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.




Save for later


Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items