The Portrait

Standing in the garden facing the four o’clock sun,

the roses drawn up to their full height,

you approach me from behind, press a piece

of paper and a pencil in my hand and ask me

to draw you a picture. I hold the translucent

sheet up to the light and traced the scene

which slowly soaks through, the proudest

rose bending at its apex due to weight of

its oversized pink blossom, petals spread

by the onset of autumn and swaying gently

in the breeze.  Above it, the soft glow of the

sun seemingly just inches away.

Between them, the silhouettes of distant

evergreens cut across at a slight angle.

Satisfied that there’s nothing left to

capture, I scrawl “The Confession” across

the top of it and hand it back to you.

With a grateful smile, you fold it in three

and slide it into your back pocket before

anointing the rose with your green watering can.


Many thanks for the nomination. I nominate: Classic NYC Story

Upon Turning Five

Today the clouds mill above us, more white
than grey, content to shuffle their feet,
taciturn and glowering, heads down,
clammy palms buried in deep pockets.

Not at all like the day you were born,
unseasonably warm, fresh sun slathered
on elm leaves which refused to turn their coats
out beside the hospital window, casting your

first colors upon your tiny hands as you slept
upon my chest, gentle green mittens caressing
the base of my neck, not holding so much as
confirming you were where you wanted to be.

This morning was no different, really, though
your feet were on the ground, hands around my
waist, a smile and closed eyes pressed to my hip
before you scurried out the door to school.

October Showers, 6AM

Morning had not yet fit its fingers through the
cracks in the shutters nor was its reflection
visible in the face of the alarm clock,

but I could hear its footsteps in the stairwell,
the soft steps of autumn,  creeping with an
inconsistent rhythm so cold were its toes.