Weekly Poetry 1

Because what else is a guy supposed to do on a Tuesday?

Peg, Remembering

The old girl mostly waits now, passing
the mornings in a large chair by the stove.
In her lap her hands twist like cold mice,
the right hand’s fingers spelling secrets
in the palm of the left.

All day her one visitor the wind
will skylark down the sidewalk like
a restless crowd of boys, whistle up
the steps to fling yellow armloads
of leaves at the door, rattle the latch
and gad away west through the trees.

Above the little town, early snow
comes in a shy dance along the crest
of Fall Mountain. Now in the shadows
her eyes rise again and again to the
painting of Spain, in the place he hung it,
ruddy hills thronged like pilgrims pressing
forward to kiss the blue lace hem of the sea.
“The world,” she breathes, and all the wakened world
comes tumbling in, a wonder
blinking in its queer dress at her feet.


- Maethelwine