The Little Images
are harvested first.
The way your arms move
hands hold a book. No—even smaller
your soft glance as I walk past,
slight creak of chair
as you settle your knee.
Tiny charms
containing all the brightness of sky
as the darkening guard
from day to dusk
is held for an hour,
the neighbor’s plow
chugs from his field
ticks-cool in the barn
where bits of straw
catch angled strands of light
float
softly
rest.
Beautiful. You make the word meander on the screen, with the lay-out reinforcing that. Great poem.
Lovely!