Privilege of Exiles

By John Blase | January 25, 2015 |

Nine, no make that ten

blackbirds in the

top of the stark white Aspen tree

each on his own branch in

stair

step

fashion

like something from the mind

of Annie Dillard (the early years).

Suddenly the ten burst black

pressing hard into

the ever beguiling western sky.

Did the wind

or their kin

alert them to some change, some wickedness coming?

Or did the ten agree

to linger in a tree

just long enough so a man might bear

witness to our privilege,

we exiles upon

this radiant spinning plane?

Jewels on January 25, 2015 at 4:08 pm

I love your words, pb.

Beth Impson on January 25, 2015 at 5:51 pm

Lovely. Dillard-like itself.

Bare Branches on January 26, 2015 at 6:20 pm

heavy sigh. the reader reads his own meaning into a poem, regardless of its original inspiration. in this i read the things that crowd my mind and heart these days. the Lord’s prayer is a mantra for the hour, particularly lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory.

pastordt on January 28, 2015 at 5:44 pm

lovely, John. truly. thank you.