Today's poem is by E.G. Burrows
Clouds crash and boil up
at the foot of the mountains.
Bravely they bite back their cries.
Sanderlings at the beach
hurry before rain comes,
and the tide on its way
to the moon claws at the sea-wall
and pulls back the better shells,
those with the clouds still in them.
The piers of the dock have green beards.
They are combing and combing
old messages from their hair.
I pry open the stoppered bottle
looking for respite from
the incessant whimper of sea-girls
and the thrashing of whales
who have lost their footing
and cannot return to dry land.
The words that fall out of the flask
have been battered by weather
and abrasive repetitions.
I hold them up to the light.
They are transparent like tears,
like rain on the shoulders of mountains.
Copyright © 2009 E.G. Burrows All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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