Red Beacons at the Edge of Hearing

Two letters.

Two poems.

Eight pages of journal.

Sixty-one years of comfort—

Louella’s handwriting.  6-12-18

 

Here’s a morning that

holds true—creeper’s

pinwheels stirring the sun.  6-14-18

Under the river of thin clouds,

swift pivots left then right.  6-14-18

Longley said to write it

even if it was the only thing—

red birds talk to each other this soft morning,

red beacons at the edge of hearing.  6-15-18

The morning sweetness,

a round table,

the chair that fits my back.  6-15-18

The firefly lands on my hand,

a tiny weight to carry a big light.  6-15-18

Talking,

three crows overhead.

Two land on the white pine.  6-15-18

Chipmunk with grass in her mouth

stops at my foot.  Kitty watches

from the window.  6-17-18

Precious

the light that travels,

the light that rests within.  6-15-18