Thrush
by Patricia | 5.18.09by P. G. Karamesines
Low morning, and low light.
Past years’ leaves edge under the ivy.
A brown thrush
Mentions the flowering pear
And the box turtles coupling
In the grey shade of white oaks.
The moss is warm; the air, fern moist;
A bright fox
Walks in the stream.
The thrush tells it,
Leaping from one branch to another,
Going down deeper into the greenbriar.
May 18th, 2009 at 7:59 am
This is an old poem from when I still lived under the influence of my Virginia years. It was published somewhere but I can’t think of where.
I think of this poem as a threshold poem, a poem that marks an entryway into another level of perception.
May 18th, 2009 at 3:20 pm
.
Although it obviously doesn’t read like Wordsworth, this feels very Romantic to me.
May 18th, 2009 at 9:34 pm
Maybe, rather than a threshold poem, it’s a thrushold poem.
Th.,
I suppose it could be a Romantic poem lacking its “Truth is beauty, beauty truth” punchline.