USA

Mariannepolo@aol.com

Seasons

I have written myself
into spring's unfolding
with the pale ink
of a light blue sky.

My pen has opened
the door to summer,
with its long green heat
and days that last forever.

Trying to revive nature,
I have spilled words
like rain
into the furrows of autumn

and I have made myself
heard
across the silences of snow
which have no echoes.

In black bones of words
I have captured the essence
of seasons past -
their moods, their colors,
their lingering joy.

First published in Hidden Oak Review.

Without Us

No mater where we are
from now on,
a month will never
seem this long again.
We have become possessive,
thinking of the house
we are renting
as our own.

Without us,
the flowers will perish
in the garden,
the hills will lose
their reason to remain
this green.

The cat slinks away
to stalk something
that just moved in the grass,
and yellow butterflies
are cleaning the air
with ruffles and flourishes,
reminding us

we have promised to leave
everything the way it was.
In this soil
prepared by someone else,
our roots are spidery
at best, but we must
pull them out cleanly.
Already,
we dread the pain.

First published in Hidden Oak Review.

Addressee Unknown

You are still
in my red book,
but if I dialed the number,
someone would answer
who has never heard of you.
Even our voices
can no longer touch.

If I wrote to you,
my words would be returned
stamped Addressee Unknown,
with love wrinkling
the paper
the way I saw your face
crease the pillows.

I remember one of your letters
bore a smudge,
and I dreaded opening it
for fear it might not
be caused by rain.
I skipped all the good news
and searched in vain
for a P.S.

With no more pages to turn
for afterthoughts
that used to hold out for
your most important news,
my hands feel empty.
How strange to be here,
with you in a place
I can not reach.

© All Copyright, Marianne Poloskey.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.