I study the swan
and neither in that hissing
threat and straightened neck
nor in that glassy glide
do I find the god disguised
nothing to say
I say nothing
nothing to write
I write to no one—the voice
of a poplar leaf
that familiar lilt
that same sweet accent and
beguiling voice …
then the dream comes to an end
with the wind in the curtain
the windfall apples
call the whitetail deer
to that mild ascent
where, throughout the afternoon,
the clouds sail on, sail on
Jeffrey Woodward resides in Detroit. His poems and articles are published widely throughout North America, Europe and Asia. He currently edits Haibun Today and acts in the capacity of Associate Editor for The Hypertexts. His selected poems, In Passing, were published in 2007 and he recently edited The Tanka Prose Anthology (M.E.T. Press).
Jeffrey Woodward resides in Detroit. His poems and articles are published widely throughout North America, Europe and Asia. He currently edits Haibun Today and acts in the capacity of Associate Editor for The Hypertexts. His selected poems, In Passing, were published in 2007 and he recently edited The Tanka Prose Anthology (M.E.T. Press).