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Inspired by comments from Janet over at Heart to Harp here’s another poem from Michel Pleau and his collection, “Eternity Taking It’s Time“. The book wasn’t selected at random from the shelf, but Page 48 was:
you never know
what remains of the storm
after it has spilled
its overflow of lies
even into the abodes
nor how the lamps
drink from memory
and then comes the moment
when the night thinks
only of touching the name of things
to become the pond
that claims the abandoned world
Publisher: Bookland Press Inc. of Markham, ON.
PUBLISHER: House of Anansi
JUST THE WIND FOR A SOUND, SOFTLY
There’s a weed whose name I’ve meant all summer
to find out: in the heat of the day, dangling pods hardly
worth the noticing; in the night, blue flowers … It’s as if
a side of me that he’d forgotten had forced into the light,
briefly, a side of him that I’d never seen before, and now
I’ve seen it. It is hard to see anyone who has become
like your own body to you. And now I can’t forget.
On Wednesdays all over the internet bloggers post a photo with no words to explain it. The idea is the photo says so much it doesn’t need a description.
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