Poetry Isn't Commonplace

But my blog is. From Apostrophes VI: open the grass.

Whatever you have held —
not roses but the air that they exhale that is a breath inside
your breath — that is the hush that rises there, the sound of it the sound
of nakedness and nothing more, every moment of a life
surrendered then, the asking that is in the light, the stance of trees,
not asking but the what of what we are, birds turning at night.

— E.D. Blodgett, "Turning"