are the persimmon trees who
suspend their weary gems on fog
rooms closed to me ring
the blue-gray toll of all not on
they cut breaths then let each sounder
vanish, cast among their
shades as flint chips
up close, they fossilize
at each approach and clang. If fruit,
Isaiah Silvers was born in Washington, D.C. He now teaches English in Kyoto Prefecture, Japan.
The Ekphrastic Review
Find a writer, artist, or poem, etc. by searching here:
Join us on FB and Twitter!