Not yet. Sea from sky
wrinkles grey. They
neared the wave,
paused, the sky
cleared bars of
white flaming red.
Burning incandescence
became transparent,
rippling until the dark.
Now the light, one
bird, a pause. Chirp,
by the bedroom window,
this blind, blank melody.
***
Virginia Woolf died on this day in 1941. Her writing is celebrated for the layers evoked in her stream-of-consciousness narratives. Her work left a lasting impression on me, and I am eternally indebted to her for illuminating possibilities within language. The above is a found poem gleaned from the opening section of Woolf’s novel The Waves.