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.


Roger Pfingston's work has appeared recently in Poetry Midwest, U.S. 1 Worksheets, and DMQ Review.



Current Issue
Contributors' Notes

Email this poem Printer friendly page

A CLOSER LOOK: Marianne Boruch

Liz Abrams-Morley

C.B. Anderson

E.C. Belli

Therese Broderick

Mary Buchinger

Edward Byrne

Jenn Blair Campbell

Norma Chapman

Antonia Clark

Robert Farnsworth

Roger Fogelman

James Grabill

Catherine Harnett

Marc Harshman

Michael F. Hogan

Kathryn Jacobs

Dan Johnson

Susan A. Katz

Judy Kronenfeld

Lyn Lifshin

Diane Lockward reviews Barbara Crooker.

Judith McCombs

Bettie Mikosinski

Mayuku Omeresanine

Scott Owens

Roger Pfingston

Les Prescott

Oliver Rice

Elisavietta Ritchie

David Salner














Last Updated: Mar 10, 2021 - 2:35:35 PM

Copyright 2005 - 2021 Cook Communication.