White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
3 comments:
Bravo
Chilling, lovely, terrifying. As usual, you nailed it.
This sonnet makes me recall William Carlos William's "No ideas but in things." It wonderfully highlights in sparse, sharp language the irrelevance of our "plans" for example in "light" of the reality of the hawk.
Post a Comment