(image by Greg Waskovich, on Pixabay)
Poem
foreshadows perfect
like a blue-green twilight sky
polished like a mountain brook’s
crystal water
happy like the tongue
tasting a strawberry
cleansed with expectancy
like the smell of a pine forest
after rain
a word mirrors life’s mystery
like a yellow wildflower mirrors
the sun
_________________
Farmhouse Hours
Morning drip of leaky kitchen faucet
heard through quiet rooms
Noonday hush of forgotten things
in attic’s bars and shadows of dormer light
Afternoon wind blows dust into a field’s headland,
shakes trellis ivy, strokes clothes on a line
Evening’s boots across the wooden porch,
screen door spring’s creak and slam
Night’s dime-bright moon makes of apple trees
shadows waiting to be picked
_________________
Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush
with vegetation. His work has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Red Eft Review,
Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Williwaw Journal, Your Daily Poem, Quaci Press
Magazine, Gyroscope Review, and other places.
I love "Evening’s boots across the wooden porch,"
and
"shadows waiting to be picked."