Snapshot Poem

I stepped from my house this morning,
head crowded with voices from dreams,
into shivering air, trembling air, symphonies
of waxwings and robins, a percussion
of crows ... Why do we enter the future
with the past in our night pockets? Trees
shook with squirrel passions; goldfish
drifted from the pond's dark bottom
up into pale water, reacquainting themselves
with the surface. The day passed slowly.
At dusk the mountains were scarved with mist.

 

Comments

[Dave]

Looks like it didn't take you too long to get back in form!

[Frances Sbrocchi]

"Why do we enter the future with the past in our night pockets?"
A line that resonates with all I feel while the rest of your snapshot takes me home to the north and spring while here we wait for winter and the grapevine has turned crimson and purple.