Linking up with Magpie Tales for the visual poetry prompt. So out of practice, but I wanted to create something this morning.
Only we can't see that
we are finished things.
Perfection renders movement impotent.
Yet concentric circles revolve,
hence the burning wheels, and each
insignificant act strokes a color--
salmon, lilac-blue--upon canvas,
so that out of flecks of dust emerges
a shining, incarnate thing,
posessing space, transparent bones,
and feathers. The waking,
walking, singing is the same,
the way the brook rushes
but the river remains, unmoved
by generations of insects.