REALITY – POETRY BY JOYCE ANDERSON

 Sitting before
 a glowing wood-stove,
 I am comforted by the rain
 tapping  pattering  hushing
 as an undulating wind
 rubs its wetness
 against the cabin walls.

 In corners of the room,
 on a draft of heated air,
 spiderwebs billow
 to the sounds of Debussy.
 While outside,
 across white capped waves
 of cold gray sky,
 tentacles of tree branches
 wash back and forth
 adrift, groping for a hold
 on a more tangible world.
 Roots anchored to the ground,

 the reach for something beyond
 soothes my sense
 of inevitable separation.
                                                Jaka
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