To the east

Fresh sun
drips from above
low-hanging fruit;

a new day

awaits harvest from
the sagging branch of
an ancient black walnut

yawning, stretching
its limbs crackling,
groaning arthritic
objection
in the breeze

sitting in the shelter
of dawn, I mimic
the tree in awakening
agreement

Dawning for a poet

Scratchy, scraping, raw
pencil on paper
causes her to stir

she turns sleepily my way
half smiles, half sneers
rolls back the other way

she thinks I am writing
a paean to some ancient love or
other stray reminisce, hopes its
not some sappy ode to her

Sometimes it is.

Other times I am writing
of birds, pine trees, lakes, youth;
life, philosophic stuff

or I am propped up on my pillow
seeking appropriate metaphors
for the sound of graphite
eloquently grazing lined
wood pulp

– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
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