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No big epiphanies,
but smaller things
I’m more aware of:
moths that call the
porch light a party,
my dogs asleep on
pillows beside me,
their sleepy breath
warm on my hand;
and this morning a
neighbor child
balanced on her knees
where the crook of
the apple tree flattens.
Hands outstretched,
she sings what she
knows from Handel’s
Messiah – alleluia,
alleluia – again and
again, her woodwind
voice through branches
and just as high, that
much closer to God –
the sky in her arms.
This poem first appeared in Lips (Issue 30/31).
Copyright © 2010 by Adele Kenny.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Adele Kenny, an animal lover (especially dogs, and especially Yorkshire terriers), is the author of 25 books (poetry and nonfiction). A former creative writing professor, and twice a Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival Poet, she is founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series and poetry editor of Tiferet Journal. The recipient of Kean University’s Distinguished Alumni Award, NJ State Arts Council poetry fellowships, and other awards,a first place Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award, and others, her current poems (often in prose poem form) focus on the ways in which the interior life intersects with the outside world. Learn more about her at www.adelekenny.com.
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Katrina:
I love this. The gregarious moths and haunting snthem immediately communicate.
Posted 08/29/2010 04:39 AM
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