V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





In my mother's small garden,
along the side of the house,
slab rocks loved the wet earth
all the way back to the yard.
Around the stone, bright flowers
thrung from the earth, delivered
sweet fragrances in the new air
every year following the rain
and snow that thump-horsed
our land each winter.  Even now,
I smell my mother's sweet buds
loping in the shade and brick,
where I would go each May
and pull up a heaving slab rock,
assist a young sowbug to turn
rightside up, regain her footing
and a sense of balance.


© by David Joseph


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