They erupt

with the suddenness

and ease of his laughter,

rising like the high,

wobbly syllables

of his singing.

Shimmering, drifting,

perfect in their roundness

as planets in a book,

they issue forth

from his lips

where he breathes

through the wand

like a birthday candle

he is wishing on.


they ride away

in the curve of leaves,

scoop of the sky,

rolling without wind

through midsummer,

his gaze steady and lifted

as any creator

to the beautiful,

mortal world

he still can take

into his heart

without misgiving.

Poet Deborah Pope is interviewed this week in LitLocal