IsLand

There fire germinates with melting tongues:

rainbow icicles mirror the drifting land

growing new skin every day,

cracked, suspended in the serene call

of lactating mountains

under the Midnight Sun.

 

I’ll place my feet on that warm, spacious

ground, glacial time,

when Sky turns cosmic green,

in waves, traveling in between.

Maja S. Todorovic

13 Comments

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  1. This is simply beautiful. The lines scan, and I have to call this fine blank verse. I hope I’m not out of line about making a suggestion, and I apologize if you take exception. In the fourth line of the first stanza, rather than “Cracked suspended in the serene call,” I would write “Cracked serene suspended in the call.” Again, this is a fine blank verse poem. Please don’t get mad.

    Liked by 1 person

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