A Poem by Rick Hartwell

After the Talk

 

Morning’s first whiff, sun burnt pine,

Nostrils spiced and alert,

Better than fresh baked rolls.

 

Splashed water from pond fountain,

Syncopated waterfall backbeat,

Ears pricked to goldfish music.

 

Early breeze dislodges hair strands,

Whisked arm hairs tickle, tingle,

Water blowback chills her face.

 

Plucked and sucked dandelion stem,

Transports several decades,

Sweet as recalled childhood.

 

Mourning doves atop the ivied wall,

A third in the pine, shunned,

Sad laments from an empty bed.

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.