The raft of
the poem rocks
as I spear-fish
for the right words.
Her dreams — a young horse,
raising dust, growing smaller
on the horizon.
Silence,
stillness,
then,
the ice maker gives birth.
Monarch butterfly —
stained glass portrait in flight —
Spring’s invocation.
Birthdays …
more frequent,
less punctuated.
Turtles on the pond bank
asking the Spring water to warm,
the willows heard every word.
the Church prayer list
held his name, now six hands
lift his casket.
Young cricket
in the watering can
answering himself.
Blessed is the one
whose pants fit right!
josephsmotherman.com 