{"id":1728,"date":"2023-11-24T18:29:28","date_gmt":"2023-11-24T23:29:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pensivejournal.com\/?p=1728"},"modified":"2023-11-24T18:29:28","modified_gmt":"2023-11-24T23:29:28","slug":"late-summer-block-island","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pensivejournal.com\/poetry\/late-summer-block-island\/","title":{"rendered":"Late Summer, Block Island"},"content":{"rendered":"
The air gray, still, and parched.<\/span><\/p>\n The rain, when it comes, is a sprinkle<\/span><\/p>\n dripping silently on the ground.<\/span><\/p>\n The mourning dove\u2019s call is backdrop<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n to the sea\u2019s suck and ripple<\/span><\/p>\n that speaks of longing<\/span><\/p>\n and sadness, buried hopes<\/span><\/p>\n like lost wrecks off rocky shores.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n From the marshes comes the trilling<\/span><\/p>\n of red-winged blackbirds, in the thicket<\/span><\/p>\n the cardinal\u2019s chirp, the meadow lark\u2019s whistle,<\/span><\/p>\n chatter of a hawk chased by crows.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the afternoon, sunlight behind<\/span><\/p>\n banked clouds glints off a sea<\/span><\/p>\n as pale as isinglass, reflecting back<\/span><\/p>\n my memories as I write,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n until the day when words will be<\/span><\/p>\n all that are left of me,<\/span><\/p>\n words and images<\/span><\/p>\n and other people\u2019s memories.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Bury my body deep in the earth,<\/span><\/p>\n but may my soul roam free<\/span><\/p>\n in the shadows under the trees,<\/span><\/p>\n in the dancing hearts of flowers,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n the setting sun and the rising moon,<\/span><\/p>\n the barred clouds and winds that move them,<\/span><\/p>\n the waters where I love to swim,<\/span><\/p>\n beloved haunts of my essential solitude.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The air gray, still, and parched. The rain, when it comes, is a sprinkle dripping silently on the ground. The mourning dove\u2019s call is backdrop to the sea\u2019s suck and ripple that speaks of longing and sadness, buried hopes like lost wrecks off rocky shores. From the marshes comes the trilling of red-winged…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":411,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"issue":[289],"coauthors":[384],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n