Here is the landscape of my son,
prying open the horizon with his grin,
of my daughter, trying to crack the sun
with her large laughter.
What of the clock that clucks, “no, no, no”?
They’ve flushed it down the commode
with all the toilet-training paraphernalia
until it backs up in the pipes,
bulges beautifully into the hills
that belch so early, “Hello, hello, good morning.”
Of course, we must answer,
must gather up the dew and daffodils in our nightshirts,
comb our hair through with the larks’ incessant trill,
our two small ones trailing after us
into the wonderfully, brightening world.
©2013 by Marjorie Maddox from Local News from Someplace Else (Wipf and Stock, 2013) and used by kind permission of the author.
It’s ripe, the melon by our sink. Yellow, bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes the house too…
(at St. Mary’s) may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our…
I miss you, fellow walkers – dad with double stroller, rainbow legging woman, earnest black…
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