Tuesday, April 15, 2014

First Light

- John Barr

Spiders in the cold,
bees in inarticulate bunches
hang from a day's work.
Waiting for light they wait
to see what they will be.
A tree lets down
green undersides and is maple.
A window glints—
a thing of saffron
kindles with singlehood.
In the broad yard
each thing dandles
its blue, its name, its consequence.

from: The Hundred Fathom Curve: New & Collected Poems. Copyright 2011.

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