It's Still Life

A Month of Writing Negative Space Poetry

I. Sky Game (a cinquain* poem)

past eight,
sunrise stitches
tic-tac-toe contrails,
each journey glued across blue.
a draw.

II. A Flood Knows Its Shape (a poem without form)

the river
knew its place.

rain came
without knocking.

the hills emptied
their pockets
into its throat.

it rose,
shouldered the reeds,
took the low field,

then the gate
        the path
                the garden

and all night
the rain kept pouring
and the river kept taking
whatever the dark could loosen.