Painted in Streaks
If I listen closely, I hear him
tapping gently with a wood mallet,
sawing rhythmic with his old crosscut,
whistling the tune of a timeless hymn.
Beneath his feet, the pine-planked floor creaks.
If I rest below this weeping willow
and wish upon the four-leaf clover
hidden behind a wild-eyed larkspur,
will I espy him through the window?
Cicadas serenade;
hummingbirds chirp and trill;
a voice in the wind speaks.
In the breeze, the door squeaks.
My dream begins to fade;
in the quell, time stands still.
And the days
my soul seeks
fade to haze…
memories painted in streaks.
Larry Powers
‘kansaspoet’
2008
