In the draw
a bulldozer is killing
a small sea of wild orange lilies
older than myself.
Near weed-fringed debris
of old barn's bones,
rest orange and blue halves
of my brother's baby basketball hoop--
I thought we hauled out
all our old junk.
In the place that was home,
rooms amplify sounds. A step, a sniffle
and the apricot kitchen
gives vacancy a voice: listen to
what isn't here.
Whether your poems be of elegiac tenor, as here, or whether they be celebrations, one always greets a new poem by you with immense gratitude.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing this poem, thank you for the years you have shared your art and your life in this public forum, and thank you for your friendship.
Tom