20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


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Winter Sunlight, by Susan Dean Wessells

Thin and pale
at morning,
like water
from melted ice
pooled along the walk.
How possible
that there is warmth
in this?
Growing in strength
throughout the day,
pouring through the window,
leading me to bask
and drowse
in focused heat.
Now strobing
through trees
on my afternoon drive,
this light strangely sharpened
in its daily course
toward night.
Susan Dean Wessells


1 Comment

RUST

100_4911

On a cold day here in New England

The shoreline still calls out to us

Our trips here are usually never planned

We just know we must get out or sit at home and rust

JT is always ready for our trips to the shore

We never  have to tell her that is where we are going

She sees him get the metal detector out  and she goes right to the door

On this day she was sad no Frisbee with the way the winds were blowing

He swung his machine over the sand

He left a path of places he had dug and filled back in

Nothing ever seems to go as planned

With him though it usually ends with a grin

His collecting apron has many treasures within

Pull tabs, copper wire and piping and so many coins and rings

Want to know the reason for the grin

Well he is always happy when finding THINGS

So on a cold day with nasty raw winds gusting

JT and I walk into the wind defiant to let it ruin our day

I remind myself we could have been home rusting

So glad we went it was such a pretty day given the fact we stayed

Eunice


3 Comments

Untitled

If I had married a poet
he would sing me to sleep with simile,
march into morning with metaphor,
brew the coffee, set the table,

a woven placemat for him,
a green one with lilies for me.
The white porcelain teapot, steaming

with water for my cup, two sugars, a slice of lemon,
and his strong coffee, black, no sweetness
except for the flavor of him
across the table.

We look, see much more,
speak, don’t speak.
The air is charged.
But,

he is not a poet.
He listens to my words,
understands my simile, my metaphor.
We have combined

our differences.
He is morning. I am night,
I the moon and he the sun
who has become my poet.

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