Into Darkness
Summer solstice beckons,
my bare feet longing for warm grass
and my ears lean in to the promise
of the cicada song.
Rain clouds gather, drift toward me,
lightning flashes in the distance.
I load the car for a trip to my hometown.
To see her for the last time.
I listen to a great horned owl
and rumbles of thunder embroider
haunting ballads into the evening.
Through my eyes of the past,
I think about the sorrows of my mother,
struggles she never spoke about.
Sunset shadows my thoughts
as I slip behind the wheel
and drive through the night.
Spring Libations
Pollen breezes a yellow dusting
and coats my sinuses. Warm honey sweetens
my tastebuds and whiskey soothes my throat,
lemon and cinnamon, a calm melody.
The aroma of the hot toddy
carries me back to the kitchen of my childhood
with Dad puffing his pipe, Mom putting the kettle on,
and crickets crooning through the screen door.
Dusk dims the day and I watch the dogs
lounging in their pen, the beehives
busy with brood-rearing, and the freshly tilled ground,
ready for planting, disappear into the night.
Chris Wood manages numbers by day, spends most evenings cleaning up dog hair from the abundance of love she receives from her fur-babies, and in between, she writes to balance her right brain from her left. She has a bachelor’s degree in accounting and works for a REIT. Her work has appeared in several journals and publications, including Poetry Quarterly, Black Moon Magazine and Salvation South. Learn more at chriswoodwriter.com.
Social Media Links:
Facebook - @chriswoodwriter: https://www.facebook.com/chriswoodwriter/
Instagram - @chriswoodwriter: https://www.instagram.com/chriswoodwriter/
Twitter - @chriswoodpoet: https://twitter.com/chriswoodpoet
Summer solstice beckons,
my bare feet longing for warm grass
and my ears lean in to the promise
of the cicada song.
Rain clouds gather, drift toward me,
lightning flashes in the distance.
I load the car for a trip to my hometown.
To see her for the last time.
I listen to a great horned owl
and rumbles of thunder embroider
haunting ballads into the evening.
Through my eyes of the past,
I think about the sorrows of my mother,
struggles she never spoke about.
Sunset shadows my thoughts
as I slip behind the wheel
and drive through the night.
Spring Libations
Pollen breezes a yellow dusting
and coats my sinuses. Warm honey sweetens
my tastebuds and whiskey soothes my throat,
lemon and cinnamon, a calm melody.
The aroma of the hot toddy
carries me back to the kitchen of my childhood
with Dad puffing his pipe, Mom putting the kettle on,
and crickets crooning through the screen door.
Dusk dims the day and I watch the dogs
lounging in their pen, the beehives
busy with brood-rearing, and the freshly tilled ground,
ready for planting, disappear into the night.
Chris Wood manages numbers by day, spends most evenings cleaning up dog hair from the abundance of love she receives from her fur-babies, and in between, she writes to balance her right brain from her left. She has a bachelor’s degree in accounting and works for a REIT. Her work has appeared in several journals and publications, including Poetry Quarterly, Black Moon Magazine and Salvation South. Learn more at chriswoodwriter.com.
Social Media Links:
Facebook - @chriswoodwriter: https://www.facebook.com/chriswoodwriter/
Instagram - @chriswoodwriter: https://www.instagram.com/chriswoodwriter/
Twitter - @chriswoodpoet: https://twitter.com/chriswoodpoet