"The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean; not to affect your reader, but to affect him precisely as you wish." ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Sunday, April 8, 2012


It’s one of those spring days
with an intermittent breeze –
all is still for a while, then
out of nowhere a little wind picks up,
moves across the yard,
dies back down to stillness once again.

The grass not mown yet this year,
tall blades stand uneven above the rest.
The wind blows, the tall blades bend,
the whole lawn ripples for a moment.

Boughs of the crab apple tree bounce gently,
their white blossoms still young enough not to fall.
A single petal drifts down and lands next to me.

The sun is warm, the breeze is cool.
The day knows what it wants to be
but I’m unsettled feeling both at once.

Across the street the trees barely move,
as if the rest of the world is asleep
and only right here it’s breathing, sighing,
dreaming? turning over? waking up?

A hawk glides silently overhead,
hardly moving its wings
till it passes out of sight.

The next breath comes
and the grass stirs, the boughs bend,
everything full of motion
like quivering readiness for something new.

~ Tamary Shoemaker
(From a prompt at NaPoWriMo to go outside and write a poem.)

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