the quiet monuments

A boy stands,
gazing,
watching himself quiver.
The night’s pinhole lights double up,
shaking in the wind’s mirth.

The earth spins halfway.
Running splash,
splatter, light
laughter. Her boots
once belonged to her doll.
Her eyes carry the light of
young stars. The sun
is not yet warm.

Wide-eyed bushmen stoop,
genuflecting.
Cupped hands
prayer water into their
parching throats.
The puddle sighs
a smaller sigh. A small
satisfaction pools in
their heaving chests.

A soft click,
inverted gray trees.
Stillness smoothes the glass,
metaphor, memory,
storage. A swallow freezes mid-flap;
the photographer smiles,
the light is perfect.

An old bicycle circumnavigates;
places to be,
things to have. The tires tread
lightly, careful not
splash above themselves.

A road slurps over wet ground,
trees watch the shivering puddle curiously.
Entireties are caught in
the water,
each moment a monument’s silence.

The leaves grow green
orange, red, empty.
Snow embalms time
from time.
Come spring, the ground is damp
and the falling clouds
find each other’s reflections again.

In the tarmac’s accidental mirrors,
cities find their solace
and oceans find their sleep.

 

 

Note: Image sourced from Reddit.

2 thoughts on “the quiet monuments

  1. Your poems are vibrant and deep. Reading them over and over again, slowly, carefully and aloud, I imbibe your images in which I spot a ray of hope. Curious Pandora emptied the chest of Zeus’ gifts to humanity but slammed it shut in time for hope to remain.

    Liked by 1 person

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