Inhalation
In the yard’s dark rush up to the house, the moon’s
white motion filters the restless blooms
whose filaments blur in the current’s ascension.
This rising of air from the grasses, the trees
to the window, whose curtains run restlessly
out for the glass, she watches.
A long, whistled blue,
in stills:
the white-tipped flash of wingspan;
answering mount of a heart;
the world’s mere wave or pitch distilled
by trust, in grace, against doubt,
across a clear expanse, her intake of breath
- Amy Newman
Copyright © 2006 Amy Newman. All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review