Why I Don't Send You Dirges (On Reading McDonald's "Anniversary")

How strange, these days, that love--
improbable, impossible, unforgivable--
not grief, is the birthing tide
I've come to ride to quiet morning shores.
Each night erases the last.

photograph by flickr user el neko
original poem here


astrogalaxy said...

Beautiful poem! Your blog is unique and I like it!

Holly P. said...

I think you have fledged, my dear. Maybe some of your feathers are still coming in, but you're flying.

Mr. Apron said...

That should be the name of your memoir:

"The Birthing Tide."

You know, when you get around to it.

chris said...

i like all the pieces of this. but not the whole. maybe i'm just in the wrong mood, but the whole seems to depend too heavily on obscurity, while the pieces are substantial stings that almost succeed at being jazz. the one above feels its own rhythm quite aptly, though, i think. :)

Kate Horowitz said...

chris (Can I still call you James?) - You got it. I was pretty wrapped up in rhythm on this one and on each separate image, and less concerned with the sum total. Way to call me on my nonsense...

Kate Horowitz said...

I have to tell you, Apron Boy, my life is not nearly interesting enough for a memoir, and for that I am truly and constantly grateful.

Kate Horowitz said...

astrogalaxy & holly -


 photo copyright.jpg
envye template.