Tonight, shadows wing like timid sparrows
in the corner of my room. A magnolia moon
rises above evening’s dark bureau from a vase
of silence. Lonely districts of the universe
pull me closer to my open window; summer
wind flickers yellow roses against the sill,
like flames on wispy-stemmed candles. These are
the hours when earth’s sweet-smelling clay
cleanses every blemish of the mind,
before dawn pours her shell-colors over
my parquet floor, and morning’s blue
is lapped across crumpled, linen sheets.
(Originally published at Lucid Rhythms and featured on our old site.)
Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent most of her childhood weekends on a boat. Her husband is British, and she travels to England regularly to visit family and enjoy the countryside. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize and author of five chapbooks, Karen’s poems have appeared a variety of magazines including The New Formalist, Boston Literary Magazine, and The Lyric.