underneath
the dripping ferns -
frog song


Tom Spencer © 2018

drinking coffee
on my front porch

listening to the
doves wake up

a plaintive coo
sounds from the oak

and after a pause
a wavering echo

from the elm
and then another

in the distance
almost drowned out

by the highway din
I drift away

now I am back
and I wait

but the conversation
has ended

gray dawn light seeps
through the trees

my cup has grown
cold and empty


Tom Spencer © 2018

Bats dart in and out
of the gathering light
I glance up at the moon
so clear against the sky
- forgetting my task
the watering can
stretches my arm



Tom Spencer © 2018

spring wind
cloud shadows race by
over the field
a lone crow
dives twists and glides


Tom Spencer © 2018

twisting path
in the sky -
crow chasing
a dragonfly



Tom Spencer © 2018

I guess they've adapted
to our debris

the wedge of geese
flying north

over south bound traffic
the hawks perched

on top of
parking lot poles

and the great blue heron
paddling air

with enormous wings
shadowing hissing lawns

and lifeless pools
but what about us

hands clenched
on wheels

weary eyes scanning
mirrors and windshields

wingless and waiting
for red to turn green


Tom Spencer © 2018

On a thin ribbon of light
unfurled from unseen heaven
direct to her parted robe
and disquieted ear

comes an angel’s voice,
the dove’s winged companion,
with words foretold in the book
now slipping to the floor.

What hunger fires
our flickering imaginations,
that require Grace come
wrapped in velvet purses-

with proof of the child’s
purity dripping from tables
and prophet encrusted walls?
I think they had it all wrong-

Fra Angelico, Veronese, van Ecyk,
and even Martini with his
gilded apprehension.
I prefer a scene without

unblemished lilies-
no fine linens, puffing cherubs,
or embroidered pillows on display.
I picture her instead

at her daily labor- pulling
on a ***** rope at the village well.
With calloused hands, she
draws her trembling reflection

skyward, when, announced
by the slightest breeze,
a stranger appears.
Before their eyes meet,

a bird’s flight distracts her-
water splashes from the bucket
washing the dust from her feet
and soaking the tattered hem

of her robe. His silent glance
holds her only for a moment.
In the distance, a voice
calls out, “Daughter!”

She turns, sets off,
bowing to her burden.
A cloud’s shadow
melts in the heat of the road.



Tom Spencer © 2018