by Rod Peckman
Behind this incubate day,
mists spray silent but whispered.
A flood when our summer slakes,
leaves umber flaking to rust.
Soft ray settles petaled hair,
leaves bare the purple to rust.
Incubate these true diamond tongues,
not the sweet sordid language of teeth.
Please whisper while you soar.
Don’t forsake this sun as it breaks,
and please whisper your slow fall,
and send notes of thanks as they save
those gifts you feel that are yours.
_______________________________
Rod Peckman’s recent poems have appeared in Barnwood, Babel Fruit, Thieves Jargon, and Clapboard House. He lives in Washington state on a small lake in the woods, and spends much of his free time watching his Yellow lab swim for tennis balls and clearing nascent beaver damns.
