Sometimes, if it’s read slowly enough and with love, even a poem that’s deeply flawed, such as this one, seems not so flawed after all. And when we think of people as poems, and approach them in the same way, it’s positively medicinal.
One Sunday in October
Just enough rain to sprout mushrooms, then wave upon wave of mold.
Un cuervo, mi mente, un matorral.
How a boy in search of red berries discovers black wings,
And her long braids and wise fingers teach him to sing.
Wave upon wave strange visions take hold:
Un cuervo, mi mente, un matorral.
Sílaba.
Sílaba.
Sílaba.
Fall.
La soledad, even for God, es natural.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: People as Poems, Poems, Poetry, Spanish
William Michaelian 