Poetry Friday -- R.G. Vliet

Who that life was

is clear: the wrist that moved

near the table, the white dress

in the shadow, sidestepping the square

sunlight on the floor lest it burn

the hem of it. Apples are pared

and notes sent and the black

stud is kept in the stable.

Fires light her pillow.

Morningtimes the garden smokes.

September. September. September.

Doors are kept ajar,

but only so. The circus is outside

the windows. The bread rises,

jelly is put in jars,

the hand is on the newel.

Shoes glide up the stairs,

and the small attic burns.”

Emily Dickinson

-- R.G. Vliet

And one more from Vliet:

“We all live

in the same garden, the iris stalks

that squeaked when we pulled them,

the weighted brambles, over hands stained

by raspberries. Sunlight rustles the grass

and the angel waits with his hands in his lap.

--from Passages

This week's Poetry Friday Round-Up is at Lisa's Blog.