by Laury A. Egan
Sweet air sweeps
past the dark red roses,
through the open windows
by my chair, carrying
the scent of grass
and sun-warmed wood,
of mint and wild onion.
As the breeze wanders
within the house, it caresses
the bedroom’s tousled sheets,
skims the smooth tops
of ebony tables
and their rectangles
of beveled glass.
I sit, reading aloud
from a poet’s book,
sifting through her words,
wondering when the sun
will drift away
into the white sky
like the poem fades
at page’s end;
wondering how long
before the breeze quiets
as the sun sets, and
the black tercets
become indiscernible
as dusk closes
on afternoon.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 