Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Found in a virtual drawer: a poem from someone who doesn't poet

Raw Silk

We tromped in deep grass, bumping shoulders, walking dogs.
You had the Frisbee, I carried the plastic bag the onions came in.
From your pocket you drew a mustard sandwich, 
We drank from the fountain built into a stele of stones.

In fall the trees wore crimson bonnets, yellow too, and orange.
The terrier tormented leafy piles, the poodle gnawed on sticks.
You caught your scarf around my neck, and pulled me close.
I searched the field for a private place because the shack was locked.

Snow made the land a fleecy bed, quilted by the prints of deer. 
Dogs dashed from corner to corner, tearing through the sheet of white.
Your letter crumpled in my ungloved hand, I wept,
The pond stiff with polished diamonds in the frozen sun.

Now, the swath of brown stretches out like silk, beauty in monotony.
The poodle chases crows, trots back to me with soulful eyes.
Ducks seam the pond, shaking their wings, as if to wake the spring.
Me, I scuff along beneath the pale of cloud. Your scarf is all that’s left.

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