Through a blue window,
deer walk the horizon like ghosts.

Because the creek reflects a creamy sky,
I do not look higher.

Turning from olive to yellow,
finches flock the mulberry tree.

Spring month begins tomorrow,
but as the old ones say, I haven't made it to grass.

Almost glowing white around,
the hills remain dun.

Smoke drifts above my neighbor's chimney.
His thorn trees prick at my morning.

My cup cracks.
I strain to catch a lost dream.

I reach for the kettle,
forgetting it was scorched and discarded months ago.  

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Linda Caldwell lives on a farm that has been in her family over a hundred years. She has been published in journals and ezines including Appalachian Heritage, Wind, Prairie Schooner, Muse Apprentice Guild, and in several regional anthologies.
E-mail: llcaldwe at kyblue dot com  

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