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Ann Privateer Page 2
Walking on Sunday
pigeons on the stoop butterflies near a tree
pigeons in the park hummingbirds scoot
another day squared smiles and mayhem
a thin lipped ad-board sign for passersby's to gaze
as your bent head angles the sidewalk
foraging wind, counting cigarette butts.
In the Kitchen
All day I stand cooking fallen fruit
from the back yard, which goes unseen
most of the year but August heat brings
fruition. I count orbs lined on the counter
in fives or tens, ripening as they wait
to be picked, washed, quartered,
mixed into the pot with a tight lid
to effervesce into my olfactory bin
where revolutions play, boiling fear's,
my mate's fragrant flowers, hugs, kisses
so hot you feel them, mother, brother,
sister who disappeared; cooking up fruit
to store in the freezer for winter's nap.
Out Cropping
The camera keys into peaks, bottoms up
to explore availability where sun sleeps in
fog's nightgown. The camera elevates
terminals jutting out beneath the harbor
above the bend to go whale watching
scanning the horizon.
© Copyright, 2015, Ann
Privateer. |