top of page
  • Lorraine Johnson

[152] From Which Crack

Gentle drips of raindrops

call at my door

and the crow squawks

and the chicken cocks

as the flower creeps through the cracks

while wrangled voices sweep, sweep

the dustballs that are left behind

from chattered walls

of discourse and stalls

progress pushes courage through

yet right behind, a million hands appear

pulling on its back—push, pull, pull, push

where were you when the clock stroke true

behind the veil it's like distant lands

and I wonder from which crack

the knowing bird will sit today

to sing its sweet longing—

ode to it all.


bottom of page