Whose turn is it to watch for paradise? - Sarah Ann Winn With first slip of daylight, I let loose hounds of dark roast to a growling grinder, cracking the quiet of thick frost and apricot overcast. My black dog stretches in sun salute as we meet a crescent moon. She looks a bit ragged and thin. Winter slows many things, sap and squirrels, but not the brooding of poets and farmers - incessant is their surveillance. The moon needs a nap, drapes her face with cirrus clouds; tries to overlook the millstones: neap tides, menses, frazzled lunatics – tugging, tugging, tugging. No wonder Selene stumbles narcoleptic spring to fall. No wonder with each waning crescent, her sagacious gifts surrender to rain. She needs a nap. There are blueprints to dream for April, and a naked winter world expects night escort, November to Spring. No wonder Diana croons in the vernal chirr of peeper and toad. Even beside groundhogs, she’d lay, seek a sluggish ecl
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.