Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2019
the cicadas know where the wind

went that quit my window--their

branches refuse to conduct.

yet their cadence remains perfected.

singing the wind's futureless window

under a summer sun, is not a punishable

offense.

it's the application of sound to the sense

of some perception, steadily building...

till marooned.
Onoma
Written by
Onoma  NYC
(NYC)   
  550
       ---, Aladdin Aures H, ---, shamamama, Fawn and 1 other
Please log in to view and add comments on poems