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 On My Clean Shirt
We plant tiny tomato seeds that look like dots. In a week, they peek through the dirt like wishes.
In another week, they sprout leaves, like arms. They grow inches every day—like crazy.
We plant them outdoors and they pause: (unsure) then they gobble sun and rain like gluttons.
Branches thicken like triceps. Yellow flowers unfold like promises.
Little balls of fruit like green rough drafts turn yellow then pink then robust red,
fill with juice like they’re about to burst,
and then, from sandwiches and salads they squirt
Wind worries shutters;
your arms circle my shoulders – the calm of day’s break.
Lifting window shades,
fingers touching the face of day, eyes gaze into eyes.
Lips brush across hair, painting portraits of promise casements can frame.
Dawn reflects that pledge,
two hearts renewing horizons – hailing wind’s caress.
We are windowpanes, invitations to morning, the East in our embrace.
Michalene Hague
tiny yellow seeds on my
clean shirt.
Lisa Moore
Road Trip
We took a road trip yesterday, tossing our winter blues away. We packed the car and headed north, leaving western Maine.
Cabin fever was running high, the worst it’s ever been,
So with map in hand we set course to go see Mount Katahdin.
The road was bordered by trees as far as we could see.
The longer we drove the more we dreamed of life in up-country.
In an instant it appeared: a radiant, majestic gem.
That peaceful giant in the clouds lifted our spirits again.
But hours of traveling on northern roads began to take a toll. Our morning-brewed hot coffee had turned from warm to cold.
So we packed up and headed south back to the Western Coast, discovering that our driveway was the road we love the most!
Mary C. Hargreaves
The Mountain Poets Society meets on the second Sunday of each month from 4–6pm. Everyone is welcome to share and discuss original poems. FMI 81

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