by Eva-Maria Sher
There is a moment
when a familiar shape
feels foreign, when your
pretty porcelain cup
spills from its shelf
to reveal its substance
when the lute—startled
resonates with a new
song, when you realize
the captive bird
in its cage by the window
holds the key to your longing
and that you are the letter
the mailbox and the exile
from which you write.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing