Quiet, Three

I'm still thinking about what quiet is and does, and came up with the following snippets of quiet things, maybe to develop into longer poems or pieces (like two I've written for submission).

* Under the small octagonal
window, my fossil fish—

* The song I never played
those thirty years ago,
for Baccalaureate one May
evening, a hush of lilacs
through the open doorway
of the white adobe church—

* The mute piano, travelling up
a flight of stairs and down again,

as in Venice somehow
a grand piano rose, majestically,
as the specter of some great
flapping prehistoric bird, above
the dark waters of an unlit canal—

* The graceful bowl
of the small Roman spoon
found in the muddy ground
among cow bones—

* Petroglyphs at Tsankawi,
talking among themselves
of the old ones, high up above
on their wind-sheltered
rock faces—

* Tennis on a red clay court
in northern Italy, with autumn 
coming on, while

in the village, just outside
the convent walls,
some nuns are washing greens—

* Camping in Holy Ghost Canyon
nearly a half a century ago—


—Christie