The Rag

A take on a poem by Jean Follain

The Rag

Powerless to imitate the birds
The rag hangs from the branch
Red next to the ripe apple
The birds have flown the apple has fallen
The rag remains
Manifesting the cold of the ages
The color of silence
Not far from here
Men are trying to work it all out
These are dark days
This scrap of cloth alone
Pins down space

Jean Follain