By Anne Williston
~ words meant for reality ~

Yes, I’ve been writing every day, but I am not satisfied that what I have written is worth posting. I posted today’s poem on the PAD site, but I’ll put it here too. A response to the painting (title):

: Piazza d’Italia, by Giorgio de Chirico

His ears would have tilted back if not frozen in stone.

The late afternoon sun, slightly chill, barely warmed

his granite back. The men met politely,

avoiding the topic most on their minds.

So surreal, the green glow baking the earth.

No longer the color of life, but the reminder

of transcendent death, gripping the world in its teeth,

claws unsheathed to hold tightly. Slender hope.

Sliver of sanity out of view, while the world tilts

on its axis towards the dying star careening

towards our sun, a tail of comets twenty earths wide.

And they talk, “How is your wife?” and

“Do you think the market will go up?”

Screams of fear held at bay

by the platitudes of everyday.

Rain coats busy streets;

green prongs of crocus emerge

while drivers swish by.

My first kite

I cannot remember the color or the size,

but I remember how the wind

tugs on the string, pulling and teasing my fingers,

whispering that I should “let go” but I resist and I run,

slanting across the field to avoid any wires,

away from the trees that would steal my kite.

Running, my hair tangles my vision;

so I stumble across the uneven ground

in my haste to keep moving. The wind flips my

bangs behind me and I can see the trees racing closer.

I slow and begin to wind in the long, long twine

tying my heart to the sky.