Come In

​

My poems are as plain as a chipped mug,

as worn as a hand-me-down sweater.

Here you will find tea with a neighbor

or the bulletin board at the country store.

My dog sits between the lines and 

my garden sprawls across the margins.

Footsteps in old shoes shuffle down

the hallways and pause to remember.

Many of the phrases need a good dusting.

I have tried, sometimes in vain, to keep

the clutter down. It frequently rains. 

There are clouds, wind, small creatures 

and things that go bump in the night.
 

            There is always pie. 
 

Sometimes there’s a crack, letting in a 

glimpse of things bigger than myself. 

Questions of great sorrow and great joy. 

Contentment weaves it all together, 

the sigh of words carefully chosen.