USA

snapshot@bluemarble.net 

Sweet Void

Alone and doing my morning mile
in the half dark, I quick time down
a street still new though poured
two years ago, empty fields on either side
where lot numbers lie among the weeds,
streetlamps lighting cul-de-sacs devoid
of traffic, the sum of this addition
being zero.
Skirting the woods, the creek
gurgles August dry below the quarry
that never stops--a developer’s nightmare--
the stone-cutting blade repeating itself
like soldiers marching double time
to a tinny music of crows and hawks,

one of which slides down its own cry
into a white vat of moon so full
I slow my stride, not believing the tears
brimming for this gift, this common
thing rising over Stoutes Creek Road
and the sweet void of unsold lots.

Not Those Monday Blues

In winter the lilac bush
is hung with suet balls
jeweled with seeds. Mostly
titmice feed while bigger
birds--grackles, doves,
jays--glean what falls.
Instead of teaching, I’m
shooting the easy birds 
through the kitchen window
with my Christmas telephoto,
coffee steaming on the table,
the kids sleeping in.
You start a load of wash
before returning to one
of those family sagas.
North of us there’s
trouble, not enough
crews to keep the power
flowing while trees topple,
snapping lines. Here,
a hundred miles south,
it’s not so bad: schools
closed, traffic oddly
stopped, the day redefined
by a lucky glaze of ice.

© Copyright, 2000, Roger Pfingston.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.