Tuesday, February 12, 2013



There is nothing over there.

Over there, nothing is there
to separate us, to show us
how close the trees are to
the house.

Omens, omens, everywhere.

Everywhere, omens, omens,
Omens R’Us, made and given
as comic strip-swaddled gifts.

The grotto is flooded,
the statues are gone.

Flooded, the grotto is
blotto with seawater
and bobbing statues,
who says statues can’t
dance. Have body, had
pedestal, will travel.
Come on, clay pals,
let’s show this ocean
what we can do now
that our feet are free.

1 comment

  1. I can hear your voice as I read this poem and hearing that makes the words even richer and sweeter and more poignant.


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.