INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Mary E. Finlan
LADYBUG ON MY FINGER
"There no time like the present
and no present like time."
The mirror under the
tree in the forest
rests in the early morning wet grass.
The hazy image in the mirror,
lying in the grass under the tree in the forest,
is useless; it's not like the feel
of the hand resting on my knee.
My fingertips touch
petals of new flowers
opening in the morning light.
The tiniest ladybug resting on my finger
stirs slightly before moving.
Now I'm glad for me,
as I sit & sigh, for only one tear
slips slowly down my cheek
while I remember when my brother returned
from Nam & that we never spoke
of the war for years,
though sometimes we stood beneath a tree
which was just outside a forest plot.
Sitting at a marbleized table
I listen to the evening's songs,
& somehow hear your voice
above the singer's own.
Listening intently I wait for a chorus never sung
anticipating some kind of refrain,
& I wonder just why I need duck tape for the window,
if the cat curled up on the couch
is snuggled next to our youngest daughter,
& if so why can't I just cry
as I sometimes do thinking of mother
& feeling her loss still in my aging years.
Tonight I sit here indoors, alone, only a few paces
from the tree in the forest now no more my own.
Fred Wolven, Homestead, Florida