Eight Micros, Or, When You Just Love Words

Eight little poems, or one long one, whichever you prefer.

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Snow of a midwinter, moonlight tardy,

Bacchanale winds down –

Whirling woolen warmth, foxes dream, their tails they’ll keep

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An old cellar. Alas,

Books, not wine

Antique parchment’s scent, a language in onyx, olden

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Words in indigo, pages in ivory, stories in

Hidden limestone layers

Hills painted. Ochre, aubergine

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Music in a pine chest, a spruce, hand carved

Quilts of old garments, calico. A leopard watches, closely. Kafka’s ghost

Pensive

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Blueberries in a pie, an old fashioned in a

Tumbler

Gifts wrapped in brown paper,

Cherry red string

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Old Boston rocker, love’s initials on one arm

BR + LN,

Century old ivory lace, a tiny hole in the train

Add mothballs

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House on a hill, pink, not haunted

Storm,

Preparing

Maple leaves falling

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Atop a little knoll,

The Count of Monte Cristo

In

The Cherry Orchard

Thinks about

Crime and Punishment

And finds

The Body in the Library

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