It’s the thing I’m drawn to, the chipped tooth
in pearling light, a hung door crooked in its frame,
the snake’s shed skin shimmering by the lake,
a spread of feathers in mud, one downy tuft
Riffling in the wind, “Here, here, here.” Not that
I’m impartial to perfection’s lull, oh, but the lie
of it. Nothing speaks of faults like cracked cliffs
crazed, the broken glaze of painted pottery, no
story in the dead snag, split, gray, leaning
into the weathered erosion of decay,
the crooked path winding under the weight
of stone, always falling, the asymmetric arc
of exfoliation, harsh, unvarnished, unfinished,
done, and done in, the imperfect line that sings.
About James Von Hendy
James Von Hendy is a poet, life coach, technical writer, wood-worker, and bird-watcher. Originally from the Boston area, he now lives on the Central Coast of California in the Santa Cruz Mountains with his wife and their ancient cats. His chapbook, Rain Dance, contains some of the poems he has published in Hubbub, Seattle Review, Ship of Fools, Rain City Review, White Sands Review, Sulphur River Literary Review, and The Kansas Quarterly. A frequent contributor to the Writer’s Digest Poetic Asides blog, James also blogs intermittently at www.vonhendy.com, where you can see some of his other poems.
One Comment
Beautiful poem — in both content and form. “The imperfect line that sings” resonates…