Light is not a pinpoint, it pours in a torrent,
the windswept valley becomes a funneled receptacle;
slices of sky thrown back like pebbles
drops down like a blue marble into the dark hollow.
The winter hangs its soul on the branches,
at the arm where the river dragged with silt
the noun moves, explodes into golden dust,
unspooling coil of memory in loops of letters.
Poem A Day
The word “cento” means “patchwork” in Latin, and refers to a poem pieced together from lines taken from other poems — in other words, a collage poem.
To write my cento I have used lines from the poems I wrote the whole of this month. The title of the poem is also from one of the poems I wrote this month. Many of the lines I have used are from sombre and dark poems. Here they bring happiness, let in sunshine. That is the magic of words, poetry!
My Garden 