The Day’s Catch by John Neville Day’s Catch If I were a bird flying above If I were a bird watching the waves ripple like a girl’s hair that falls over her shoulders blue and black and silver in regular ripples thick and thin— If I was a bird...
The Shelton with Sunspots by Georgia O’Keeffe Like a bride bedecked with her jewels she arises With the sun as her diadem, soars into the skies, Clouds as her veil, face obscured by the radiance That shines through her dark solidity As if it...
Black Door with Snow by Georgia O’ Keeffe Blank and bare, black and white and adobe brown, baked brick remembers summer’s heat but gives nothing away. The snow whispers its own story and soon will be gone. It lines the steps, hushes against...
Invocation –for Kyra The open window admits the last light of a long summer day. No breath of breeze stirs the curtain’s gauze. All is still but sounds creep in, cars and children cicadas and leafblowers like roaring lions. Gold limns the...
Garrowby Hill Down from the hills the purple road flows twisting and leaping like a girl who has a new twirl dress down into the patchwork valley between fields fearfully tiger-striped with new-plowed furrows and the rows of sentinel trees standing...
Afternoon Respite July afternoons blaze gold and bright like the glow of her favorite gown. Not a breeze to break the baking heat in her dusty garden She retreats to the cool green bank of the sofa to dip her tired brain into the brisk stream of a...
The rose-gold world resounds with end of day gladness. The sky stretched like a canvas waiting to be filled with calling birds winging home to their roosts. The grass’s green glimmers with gilt while sentinel trees have darkened their cloaks...
Motherhood The way the mother’s fingers lift and squish her breast to help the baby latch. The way the baby’s hand clutches his mother’s finger as he nurses. The way the baby’s eye looks up, trustingly, at his mother’s face. The way the mother looks...
Mother and Child I In the red cradle she is finally asleep— innocent, serene— as if she’s always been. The hand clutching the cradle tells a different story, resting, limp, protective, above the upturned head. The baby now quiet, mother has...
Ave Maria on the Lake A raft full of sheep is a strange sort of temple; yet this is where the morning bell finds them, golden notes carrying across golden water in the golden dawn. They bow their heads, and pray the familiar words, recalling how the...
