by Rod Peckman
She tried to crumble a leaf for effect
but it was November.
Like a wrung sponge it let loose
a week’s worth of rain.
We could only laugh,
and guess how high the river
might be this very moment.
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Rod Peckman is fortunate enough to live in a beautiful space. He shares his habitat with raptors, waterfowl, mammals both large and small, and his bête noir, the tenacious beavers who never stop in their quest to inundate his backyard (Actually, though troublesome, he has a grudging respect, bordering on fondness, for those tireless rodents). Rod’s poems have appeared in numerous online and a few print journals. His favorites can be found in Barnwood , Babel Fruit, Juked, Silenced Press, Willows Wept Review, The Tonopah Review, Breadcrumb Scabs, Ghoti, and Paradigm. He’d like to thank his dog Allie for her infinite patience and constant good cheer. |
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 