Obsidian Archer

A day of rain and mist. While working in the basement, I discovered a tiny, black cricket. Seeing or hearing these insects at the end of summer and throughout the fall, I often think of this small poem written by my neo-surrealist friend, Roger Parish:

DEAD CRICKET

You sprawl
like a crushed piano,
O obsidian archer!

For you,
the siege is over
and the song forgotten.
Never again
will your dark arrows
pierce my screens.

Publicado el agosto 27, 2017 03:54 MAÑANA por scottking