Drizzle thickens and softens the distance
between me and the willow tree
two clouds like grey apostrophes
hang on the horizon, and between them
all the unspoken questions dangle
in the family of things.
What I want to say is this:
the world has no word for ‘real’.
On the hill the ash tree is on the cusp
of being and becoming, as we all are,
as too above it and invisible and
in their own sidereal time are the stars
and constellations.
The sky’s underbelly has the lustre
of a pearl earring, and dusk, coming in
like a wave, takes on a blue
as thick as breath
where I go out, decide to slip
my skin, begin to dissolve
~ Roselle Angwin
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