Morning Time
June, swooshing through grass
puffs around her little skirt
and steals her tissue.
The Artist
Still-life beauty lies
regaled in party pearls, gloves
rouge, shroud and mass cards
Daylight
His car door slams shut,
eyes inch past the curtain's edge
sunshine hits her cheek.
The Writer
Her spring kiss, blows in
through the new-opened window
he puts his pen down.
Fall(en)
on crisp brown leaf-beds
They slow-lay me, blanket first:
I am a lady.
Mary Salen writes poetry from her farm house in the historic Oley Valley, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband and five children.
Really nice collection!
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