Poetry by Steve Swank from our virtual circles

Place

The farm is a place,
the land is a place to be from,
earth sand, wind,
a buggy spills in the ditch.

The heat of summer,
the slog of fall,
common labor, heft, and haul
wipe the mind in daily routine.

Through the arching limbs of trees,
at night stars, a littler breeze
slopes down the shaded hill
through the kitchen door.

The troubles of man are clearly plain,
too numerous to ignore,
lost from view in the pouring rain
is the sign: kittens.

Save Your Breath

I
The prompt is like a box of chocolates,
save your breath—
save your breathe to cool the soup
a fox now guards the chicken coup.

II
A box of chocolates I did not buy
for valentines, I tell you why,
among the choices that seem so sweet
compared to you they can’t compete.

III
Unexpected, unique, quietly your smile
assured, elegant, content—the calm
of practice, and ready—honors the choices
that make you, you.

IV
I turn over the little stone,
gently lift the creature
living there that waits
my notice, my love

V
It was started with a meet-up ad,
the writers meet at Johnny Cakes,
a thousand cranes Tedo makes,
now look at all the fun we’ve had.