A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

if I had walked away
you with your back
turned to me

I would not have seen
your eyes
smiling into mine

I would not have heard
your chuckle
rippling with mine

but I stayed
for dinner

A poem by Joanna M. Weston

silence broken
by the ringing phone

he’’ll be home
for dinner

close my book
tidy the disarray

of a weekend on my own
think of recipes

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

the smell of hot dirt
brought in with shoes
overlaid by cigarette butts
half-handled candy
stale under-arms
hair-spray
after-shave
exhaust fumes

the flurry of heat
as the door opens
on the pungent aroma
from the bakery opposite

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

do I rant of goldenrod and roses
broken by thunderous clouds?
and will rain answer with whispers
dripped from bare twigs?

rather I bend into a shout of wind
catch the sting of words on my skin
run for the shelter of a wall

where I murmur to a coming shower
of green and rising flowers
that know the urgency of April
and the weep of winter’s end.

A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

stands on a misted hill
under lowering clouds upheld
by evergreens

an elderly priest built it
by selling butter from his own cow

now the church faces a metallic bay
and frowns behind a poster
for the local craft fair

rain darkens the parking lot