2 Poems–Diane Webster

Whirlwind Moment

Only noticed by disruption
the whirlwind suctions dust and leaves
and scurries toward a lone pedestrian
like an old woman waving
a granddaughter’s letter
to the neighborhood of closed doors
until one opens to the whirlwind,
and it rushes breathlessly to spin
memories of mud pies and the smell
of smoking leaves in Fall
when all life was younger,
and wind dies down so a person
wonders where that came from.

Clothesline Summer

The clothesline hangs
more abandoned than used
except for ants to tightrope-scurry
over sprinklers raining
from here-to-there pattern
like driving freeway as opposed
to lawn-jungle trek;
by dragonflies to rest
and balance in silence
like on a fishing line cast
over the river where
hungry carp see a meal
too far away to leap for
and gone in a shadow memory;
by kids strumming
a giant guitar with a broom handle
and ducking beneath the wiry tunes
twanging between the posts;
by mothers breathing in the day
through cotton threads saturated
by summer sun today.

For over 30 years, Diane Webster has worked in the same newspaper office in positions that have nothing to do with writing.  Her work has appeared in The Rainbow Rose, The Old Red Kimono, Philadelphia Poets, and other literary magazines.

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