Villanelle on a Pennsylvania Dutch Landscape
Naked branches praise the winter sky divine,
just as light echoes against blank spaces –
the empty canvas tells us something more than lines.
Bolts of black lightning come apart like frayed twine
In fractal patterns across heaven’s traces.
Naked branches praise the winter sky divine.
We tell the children their work is unrefined
before crayon fills their pages,
but their empty canvas tells us something more than lines.
Once you told me about your saddest times:
Sundays in spring when blooming leaves fill the spaces
where naked branches once praised winter sky.
Outside, in the sun’s final hour, sublime
light strokes long shadows across weary faces.
The empty canvas tells us something more than lines.
We drive home past green valleys, fruit budding on vines,
pastel dresses hung to dry. My mind retraces
blank spaces: naked branches where winter sky’s
empty canvas tells us something more than lines.
Ben Weakley lives in Tennessee with his wife and children. He writes poetry and enjoys hiking in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The Ekphrastic Review
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