Preparation
by Conrad Martin
The woods steep blood to umber,
The sky floods throat to silver,
Making us lungs.
Earthlaw opens inkward,
Drawing the green sea wider
For the fox sharping west.
The towns are deep pails
Of a child’s chalks.
People gather purple
Meanings for and against
Night, the empty loom.
I, in blue eye caves, sometimes try
To lie transparent to the black
Slake of heaven.
White is my wish
To hold up to you
Moonrise, snowfall, and all
White wings.
Conrad Martin lives in western Pennsylvania, working in freelance design, fabrication, and writing.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy
Somehow I sensed this poem had more to say to me than what I got at first reading. So I left it open on my computer for awhile to reread a few times. Now it just dawned on me that you are playing with multiple colors here. This is lovely.