Tuesday, April 14, 2015

A Spring Poem

It’s All Music

My neighbor’s pickup truck,
filled with a winter’s load of garbage,
is a fixed point from my front step.

Scarecrow men from Halloween past
rest in tipsy poses by the door.
One waves as I collect my Sunday paper.

You, in the disintegrating overalls,
can you hear my voice?
Is the snow on your head

a benediction or a sorrow?
Dead leaves rustle the trees.
The sky is painted gray

as the spring-ready birds cry
wake up, wake up.

(from Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter, Word Poetry, 2013)

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