Saturday, July 4, 2020

Two-Line Poems

This time 
rain brought 
a gopher 
out of its burrow, 
a race 
across a road 
to the acre 
beside the creek, 
high grasses 
lines of new trees 
putting roots into 
flood plain 
still soft enough 
to disappear 
before that woman 
with her dog 
crosses the bridge. 

Less than 
a 50 yard dash
a doe watches, 
face the color of Florida sand, 
not Gulf but Atlantic 
where sea traffic 
tans grains 
from that rice white 
to a yellow brown glow, 
a bright contrast 
to the still green 
soy beans 
under foot 
a shade dimming 
as she turns 
and waves goodbye. 

If I close my eyes long enough
that fan on an end table 
rolls up the aisle
offering water
pretzels
white noise
letting me drift
over pages of my kindle
missed paragraphs
filled with cat whistles
above the clouds.

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