Poetry and Poetics
Faulkner is nowhere and everywhere
here, adrift among oak grown thick
with all the years he has been gone.
Scent of magnolia sweetens the air.
Shadows litter the portico as we walk
the alley of cedars. Summer heat rises
to shimmer between us and the white
clapboard home that keeps him still
for us in time. Inside, an office wall
is covered with the outline of A
A small table holds his old Underwood.
My daughter, freshly finished writing
her first book, leans across the threshold.
© by Floyd Skloot
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