Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
The air is warmer at the river’s edge. The insects cloud around his head, and the cottage his wife's father built by hand blazes white, as if burning in the afternoon sun. The hammock strung between two dogwood trees twists in the wind, channeling the murmur of the song she sang when the children were small and sunkissed, splashing in shallow water, catching minnows. The allure surfaces silvered and swift: the temptation to imagine her calling from the other side. The slap of a fish jumping lands like a palm to his cheek. Out there, in the middle distance, silver scales flash in clear water— a contorted shadow swims below, hooked to impossible brightness.
0
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
Widower
The air is warmer at the river’s edge. The insects cloud around his head, and the cottage his wife's father built by hand blazes white, as if burning in the afternoon sun. The hammock strung between two dogwood trees twists in the wind, channeling the murmur of the song she sang when the children were small and sunkissed, splashing in shallow water, catching minnows. The allure surfaces silvered and swift: the temptation to imagine her calling from the other side. The slap of a fish jumping lands like a palm to his cheek. Out there, in the middle distance, silver scales flash in clear water— a contorted shadow swims below, hooked to impossible brightness.
jonathan-witte
Written by
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem