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Mobile Photography & Art Saturday Poetry – ‘Fall’ by Didi Jackson with imagery by Jennifer Graham

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This weeks Saturday Poetry, matched with mobile photography/art is entitled ‘Fall’ by Didi Jackson. “I am curious to know how we come to understand death, its permeance and inevitability. These two young girls were moved and saddened at the goldfinch’s crash into my window, but they accepted the result with a resolve adults either find more difficult or ignore all together. Unfortunately, I know this is only one of several sorrows they will face in their lifetime. I wish I could change that fact for them, but ultimately no one can”, explained Jackson of this poem.

I have matched this image entitled “And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister’s story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.”~ Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus. By @j a Graham – Jennifer Graham with this poem.

You can view and follow her work on Instagram here.

If you would like to be featured in our Saturday Poetry section, please ensure you include the hashtag #theappwhisperer to any images posted to Instagram. This will mean we will be able to consider it.

To view the others we have published in this section, go here.

Source poets.org

‘Fall’ ©Didi Jackson

 

It is a goldfinch

one of the two

 

small girls,

both daughters

 

of a friend,

sees hit the window

 

and fall into the fern.

No one hears

 

the small thump but she,

the youngest, sees

 

the flash of gold

against the mica sky

 

as the limp feathered envelope

crumples into the green.

 

How many times

in a life will we witness

 

the very moment of death?

She wants a box

 

and a small towel

some kind of comfort

 

for this soft body

that barely fits

 

in her palm. Its head

rolling side to side,

 

neck broke, eyes still wet

and black as seed.

 

Her sister, now at her side,

wears a dress too thin

 

for the season,

white as the winter

 

only weeks away.

She wants me to help,

 

wants a miracle.

Whatever I say now

 

I know weighs more

than the late fall’s

 

layered sky,

the jeweled leaves

 

of the maple and elm.

I know, too,

 

it is the darkest days

I’ve learned to praise —

 

the calendar packages up time,

the days shrink and fold away

 

until the new season.

We clothe, burn,

 

then bury our dead.

I know this;

 

they do not.

So we cover the bird,

 

story its flight,

imagine his beak

 

singing.

They pick the song

 

and sing it

over and over again.

©Jennifer Graham

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