Charles Webb, one poem

February 5, 2018

Unseasonable

 

The storm moves East,

Cold, indifferent,

Leaving empty cornfields

Full of snow and night.

 

The early green of spring

Lays stunned and stiff

Beneath the drifts,

The moonless sky,

The pale reply of distant stars.

 

From such dark, 

The early light

Unwraps the contours of a house

Now bound with snow

And blind with sleep.

 

Its eyes once bright

With peonies;

Reflected gold forsythia

Now cast in cold brocade

And inlaid in the snow.

 

The house receives the light, 

And in return, the light reveals it.  

Falls dimly on the monolith, 

And counts down rows of bricks.

A winter’s cave begins to blush into 

A barn, and all that’s winter, murk and shade

Becomes a farm.

 

Charles Webb is a child psychologist, who lives in Wilmington, Delaware with his wife, two sons and a dog, Roscoe. Dr. Webb began writing poems in high school in the late 70s , and  continued through college in the early 80s. He has only recently begun submitting to literary journals, and has had a handful of poems published in The Broadkill and BellaOnline Literary Reviews.

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