Another day begins with rain. No sun.
Bare light. Small pebbles rattling down a pipe.
The turning tree swayed like a pendulum
but now it’s still. The day feels odd, unripe,
a child of night, a day without a dawn,
a dream that hasn’t stopped although I’m up.
The winter’s here but waiting to be born
when all the springs of autumn light are shut.
The turning leaves, the dark green leaves are soaked.
The sky is learning to ignore our hopes
as mornings every day release more ghosts
while winter lurks in autumn’s fine gray smoke.
A bird finds shelter underneath a chair.
About ten seconds more, it isn’t there.
Ed started writing poetry at sixteen because it was the only way to make sense of how the world opened to him. He wrote free verse for years, was published here and there, then, three years ago, he felt the need for the discipline of form, in structure and language and started to write sonnets. One thing he’s learned, among others: Just because a tiger’s caged, it doesn’t make it any less ferocious.