Auguries 3


I harvest signs,

glean among wispy omens,

scavenge in pyramids and middens

aching to unwrap the unknown,

reveal the secret names,

unfold the silence.


I am nothing if not voracious for the real.


Auguries reflect

our faces

fragmented in store windows.

Barely recognizable.

Blurred and staring masks



Oh and then there was the black scarf

blown into my patio by a February storm,

winding itself around the bare branches

of the Japanese Maple


the small stone Buddha.


I wake each day to miracles.



she says,

she has nothing to say.


Poem and photo by clinock