Holly Haworth

Morning song, Chattooga River


after the night rain clicks away

like some overburdened train fine mists

sweep in

the inch worm unfolds

from its unmeasured sleep

drifts down on a single           

            invisible string

and everywhere in the trees

there is a flutter and unfurl

a slow rouse and ruffle

and still the after-drips

through leaves like ghosts tapping

                        with bony fingertips

                        ten thousand pricks


dozing pools of thought


a ripping open, then:

            gray curtain rent by song

            bird fluting shrill

and nothing solemn now

                                    nothing still


and everywhere

white light      


comes seeping.

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