When the mounting sky spreads against the night at dawn,
all she thinks about is money.

When the heat of day begins to warm the rocks, money.

When the smooth geese stir in the reeds, money.

When the green beaver gnaws in the shadow, money.

When the rapacious woodpecker awakens his meal, money.

When the yellow butterfly drowses on the green moss, money.

When the lake swoons into a deeper shade of blue at the beginning of the evening, money.

When night descends, bough by bough, through the pines, money.

When the moths mate in the dark,

I bring her some.



  1. Aaron Asphar said,

    July 4, 2011 at 1:21 pm

    When the poet writes for the other this is not poetry but a very desperate commodity.

  2. July 4, 2011 at 1:36 pm

    Aaron Asphar, what on earth do you even mean by that? Isn’t a poem an act of communication with/gift given to “the other”? I think most people understand it as something like that.

    Is “desperate commodity” a jargonish sort of way of making fun of somebody for writing poems?

  3. July 4, 2011 at 1:40 pm

    I rate this as quite a good poem, by the way. And I am pretty sure it would be the only “original” poem I have complimented on this site.

  4. July 4, 2011 at 4:35 pm

  5. July 5, 2011 at 7:57 am

    I think that by the “other” Aaron meant “money”, as opposed to beavers, woodpeckers and moths, that is.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: