Thursday, November 24, 2016

Back Porch Poem

Grampa's pistola,
A watch --gold-- a
Rule of folding brass,
A netting shuttle I
Watched, when I was
Little,  get whittled
From shingle under
A shady tree sees me.
Grandma's scissors parked
In Portuguese cork,
A box of pins,
This is how settlement
Begins: someone
Builds a shadow,
A shadowbox, and under
Glass each soul looks
Out, out of the past,
And in reflection
Sees outlines of
Things to be --like
Us, like you and me.

Saturday, November 5, 2016