Poem by Christien Gholson

Where Joy Comes From, Where It Goes
After Wang Wei

Alone I come back to this pinyon, how it clings

to a seam of stone, precarious. Resin

on the fingers; turpentine, with a hint of orange:

what water tastes like to the dead?

A chickadee pulls a seed from a cone. Look away,

look back, she’s no longer there. All my thoughts –

how I can’t, how I can, how it’s too late – dissolve.

Wind moves the sun across pinyon branches.

Spirals of light: how they hold the mind together,

how they take it apart…


This entry was posted in Uncategorized by Miriam Sagan. Bookmark the permalink.

About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well (https://miriamswell.wordpress.com). The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

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