The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Doraine Bennett

AT A WORN PIANO IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM

He worries over a diminished seventh⎯
He just finished his sixth, and still
Has no tonic for the melody behind his eyes.
He searches for a phrase, one to capture the face
Of the woman he followed home,
And listens to himself listen to the song
She hears across the room.
He's not convinced that he won't leave,
So he looks for a reason to stay,
Singing, "They've come to take me home,"
Like one who still wishes they would.


STILL, SHE CANNOT WRITE THE SPRING

It was a cold Christmas
That chilled the roots and left no promise
Against the hard consonants of November.
A songless sparrow picks lichen
From trees standing bare in the wind
And listens with her for a touch
Of sunlight, for words to melt the icy ground,
To bear the burden of a crocus
Rising through frozen earth.


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