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.
Doraine Bennett lives with her husband in Columbus, Georgia, where she is editor of the Infantry Bugler. After raising four children, she went back to school, finished her BA in Professional Writing, and began writing poetry. She also writes for children.
