The sun slants, hitting the stop sign
on the corner. Barely visible by evening,
it flows red this morning.
The tops of the trees colored bright.
This evening they will be shaded
and muted. The tall oak down the
street colored bright as the sun
slides below the horizon.
Looks like rain again.
Green, gray, hazy.
Across the street, the neighbors
are moving, selling the house.
Since old Henry died, they
just let it go. A busted
chest laying in the bushes. Trash
spilled out and left. The azaleas are
still pink and
That day I didn’t have the car
to go grocery shopping, we tied a chicken,
legs and neck. My oldest daughters
stretched the hen out, neck
on the stump. I aimed and
chopped. Did it run around
afterwards headless, before
we fried it for dinner?
The wet smell of rain.
It pours off of the roof.
My desk is behind a waterfall.
Thunder rolls, crashes. The leaves
shiver in the downpour.
The sound of rain on the roof,
outside my door, in the puddle,
This hazy, grey morning
the greens blend softly,
none of the sharp brights
the sunlight shows.
Acorns hit the roof,
bounce and roll.
Grandchildren leaving town
I sit at my desk writing this postcard
and waiting for rain.