All Would Be Still
The rhododendrons
have hunkered
into winter.
Thin,
intertwined birches
reflect perfect twins
on the surface
of the freshwater inlet.
Tall tawny grasses
along water’s edge
waver so
slightly, it’s like watching
a lover breathe.
All would be
still, but the sparrows—
frenetic—flit, dart,
dive,
alight on slight
branches,
startle others who
burst skyward
or drop to the ground.
They appear to
collide midair,
break apart like
split atoms.
Shrill quarrels
pierce
the windowed
wall through which
I watch.
I wish I could paint
for you
flashes of crimson
breast or blue crest
but they’re the
color
of wintered
leaves.
This is not a
still life, and I
do not sit on a museum
bench.
The sky has
dulled, unsettled.
Pale sunlight peers
from beyond
the firs. I pull
on my coat,
slide open the
glass door.
All Would Be Still was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University).
© 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.
© 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.
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