By quiet, glacial pond
stands a solitary tree.
Its roots upon the banks
hold taut the loose earth.
And there proud it stands,
not as a tree among trees,
but one of noble girth,
to shed upon the liquid face
of the nearby companion,
a colorful profusion of leaves.
In reply, the viscous surface speaks,
sending perfect ringlet waves
toward yonder bank, where,
the tree now nearly bare,
laps them up but cannot share.
Then, as skin transforms to ice,
as tawny bark becomes slate gray,
connections halt between the pair,
until spring thaws ice away,
and with it, renewed attempts
(c) 2013 by Roger W. Bodo – All rights Reserved
There among the rustic smells of the trading post,
Lined up at the counter are the workers of the day,
Ordering coffee, biscuits and smokes for company along the way.
Down the aisle from the pop cooler,
Around the counters made of old doors and pine wood bric-a-brac,
Stacked tight with Gillette, sundries, candies and tobbac,
Swaggers one of the young ones,
Waiting for the bus, skipping class perhaps,
Thin and jaunty, somehow fitting the scene among,
Older patrons chewing and spitting in a pot,
By the pinball and poker machine, some waiting some not,
For the vittles grilling in back … then, coming up hot,
White paper bags of food, with names markered on,
Slide across the counter one after another,
And Ham Biscuit Bobby, school bag slung over his shoulder,
Grabs his daily fare, and shuffles outside to open,
His bag on the winder sill, and drink in the smells of satisfaction.
Yep, it’s another good day.
© 2013 by Roger W. Bodo. All rights reserved