Monday, August 22, 2011

Ten Trees

Stars snap their fingers,
refuel, then slam a palm
of light onto fronds and pines.
The moon's no crown of the sky,
its contribution blown
out of proportion through poems --
but stars glaze a reader over too.
They drip with sterility,
so efficient,
so ready.

1 comment:

Indigo Bunting said...

Oh, the stars last night. I needed a star poem this morning.