Poetry and Poetics
Turkeys feeding lift
their wattled heads to look.
Deer with mange browse Meeker's woods,
and in Ecuador a high, white-seared geography of cloud
slides over a hill of coffee flowering.
My mother's words, the soft under her eyes,
her shoes, her kettle steaming, radio on,
all come back to me if I think hard,
wait, not yet, listen, ok, now.
© by Lex Runciman
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