The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Roger Pfingston


Beatific, even in cement,
though a bit tilted by the industry
of moles in a rose garden,
the saint leans against the maple.  

A chipmunk squats on his head
munching manna from the bird-
feeder swinging under the weight
of a quarrelsome duo, finch
and towhee.

           Higher still, wind
whistling through their wings,
doves flutter down to line the limbs
where they murmur among themselves
with the unassuming patience of their order. 


All day the leaves do
as they did the day before
and will tomorrow.

My neighbors appear
with rakes and riding mowers—
serious intent.

Mine is no less so,
musing at my desk, naked
to the moment, pen

raking the slow fall
over paper, little pile
of maybe something.


Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication