Poetry Wednesday

stroke

ponderosa pine,

the ghost at the end of my hall

does not come to you

(only to me) with a mask

and a quiet disposition.

cross-legged we

Consider One Another, our

grooves.

the exchange:

I have his disappear-clothes, he

hums too;

the song crawled up from the corners

and lit up his mouth

(pretty)

orangecolored I know and he

also does.

Annnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

White Apples

by Donald Hall

when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes