Yesterday, a quail on the fence behind our garden feeder
sang rococo, rococo—a warning. Oh hear, rococo.
Today, silk- milk down lay scattered on the grass.
Yesterday, I peered through blinds half-opened, drank clouds
and mist and drizzle-drought, waited for the spilling sky.
Today, cerulean blue canvas backdrops finches’ song, with
orange-bright wings of oriole and his muted mate.
Yesterday, I thought of death, the thought of yours nine years ago
without much warning.
Today, you visited my dream and when I tasted watermelon sweetness,
savored, while I can.
This is a poem in response to a prompt that I’m hosting Thursday over at dVerse Meeting the Bar. Anaphora is the poetic device in which the same word(s) are used at the beginning of each line or stanza. Hop on over and read more about it and bring a poem of your own. The doors open Thursday, 3:00 PM EDT.
Yesterday was my sister’s 9th anniversary of death.