After rain, the windows silver--
sunset draws couples out to sit in chairs
on porches, to watch the road curving
before their houses
like a long knife.
A man waves to me from the flower beds
that edge his lawn--zinnias, marigolds.
What was it that he recognized,
or does he mean to wave me on?
Soon the yellow porch lights
will be turned on.
Soon.
Photo: "Wet Road on Curve" http://www.flickr.com/photos/fauxto_dkp/3753340837/
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Con Chapman
Deven McKay
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Comments
Just WOW.
There's so much richness of content in your few words. lovely, dearie.
And--I needed this perk-me-up. So, thank you.
Rated
Rated.
rated with love.
Your poem pulls me in with its sense of not really belonging, of just being a spectator. And a yearning for something more welcoming.
Or is that just me?
Very intriguing! Your poem and picture also evoked in me the smell of rain on the hot raod too! I love that smell!