Listen to the foam of my voice and I will pour it for you,
all the tiny stories in one intoxicating stream,
catching each other’s sparkle,
now, before the taste disappears.
A poem by Lesley Wheeler today.
by Lesley Wheeler
In some kind houses the doors
never quite shut. Every table
hosts a bowl of eggs—wooden ones
or striped stone, cool to touch.
What could grow in an egg like that?
A day becomes a story becomes a bird,
a lost seagull who shrinks each time
I describe him. Watch him fold
his filigree wings, crawl into
the shell. His song wasn't much,
but he tries to swallow it,
as if he can retreat...
read the rest here
Writing the World for Kids has the Poetry Friday round-up. Thanks, Laura!