From the window, the sky, the trees,
even the push of the wind,
appear as a pencil sketch,
charcoal on gainsboro with barely a sign
of paper showing through.
The blacktop carries a sheen
from on-and-off rain,
as jet-feathered crows strut into
silver puddles, ringing ripples
echoing their footsteps.
So many days have begun
and died off this way, climbing
up one horizon’s gray-scale
and stepping back down.
Through the trees, someone’s
switched on their porch light,
injecting a prick of life behind
this page of chiaroscuro
in my unlined journal of yesterdays.
Tomorrow, I plant.
Poem number 11 in my attempt to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. I used a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site for this one. It is a challenge that I write a poem in which I closely describe an object or place, and then end the piece with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does. I, of course, had to write it in my own 100-word framing, because…Hesch.