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"Suburban Bosk"


Silence roused us from our sleep,

Once the blackout killed the clock

And hushed the strangely soothing hum

Of everyday appliances.

We got up in the night half-dressed,

And stepped outside in stocking feet

Past sprinklers chattering in the grass,

And walked the trees that line our street.

On any other night, we’d find them

Standing in a line, possessed

By cold, insomniatic light

That hid the stars in endless day.

But settled deep in native dark,

In calm surrender to the moon,

Their bodies stood like cows that sleep

Dreaming as they gently swayed.

And as we watched the slow cascade

Of sun-lit moon to moon-lit leaves

Casting arcs of unlit shade

On concrete blocks and asphalt streets,

We felt removed, as if we stood

Upon the brink of wilderness,

Until the street lights blinked and gazed,

And washed the wilderness away.

That night I dreamt, beside the gate,

A young white oak, made bold by spring.

Grew beside a wildwood path.

To tell me it was time to stray.

 

Charles Webb is a child psychologist, who lives in Wilmington, Delaware with his wife, two sons and dog, Roscoe. Writing poems provides him with a creative outlet and some small justification for his decision to major in English. He is an occasional contributor to The Broadkill and BellaOnline Literary Reviews.


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