a door closes
and I hear him

shuffling down the hallway
his wife of sixty-six years

my mother
asleep, almost invisible

beneath the blankets
as fragile as a baby bird

he stops to wind
the grandfather clock

smiles and nods
“I smell that coffee”

ninety years-old
and still "up-and-at-em”

pills to ration
a newspaper to fetch

dishes to put away
meanwhile

back in their room
dreaming

she remembers
everything

standing by his side
she turns to meet his eyes

Tom Spencer © 2019

vast
infinitely vast

soft spring sky
calmer than a waveless sea

swallows arc
with scythe-like wings

distant flecks
vanishing

beyond
the beyond



Tom Spencer © 2019

suspended
holding my breath

as the crow floats down
lightened

before landing
wing tips fluttering

talons extended
reaching

for the top
of the powerline pole



Tom Spencer © 2019

after weeks of drought
waking up to thunder

and torrents of rain
flashes illuminate the darkness

silhouetting the trees
hail stones pound the roof

and shred the new leaves
lights flicker, windows rattle

as I peer out of the door
none of this compares

to the storm in my heart
your last words to me -

"I guess it is the two of us now"
yet, you are far away

and I am left thirsting
alone and uncertain

Tom Spencer © 2019

dangling from the
powerlines

crescent moon
and morning star

luminous jewels
suspended

above a blinking
stream of brake lights

crawling
into the dawn


Tom Spencer © 2019

spring morning,
still dark -
mockingbird song
eager for dawn

Tom Spencer © 2019

before the stars
first flared

the ephemeral
becoming

the rising into
and slipping

out of being
is all that has ever been

an effervescent verging
pulsing on the cusp

between what was
and what will be

that place where we
experience

what is briefly
and beautifully real

but now
we have learned

how to package
even this

shrink-wrapping
and conforming

existence itself
into a virtual

and vacuous
commodity

a transaction
based on distraction

fleeting glances
gauged for profit

worth something
to someone

somewhere
a stalker browsing

for sleep-walkers
with available eyes


Tom Spencer © 2019