ELEGY Poem: Spotter, by George Dibble

The clouds low, still: a washed, frozen surf. This landlocked
grove. The trees now barely outlined as if viewed through dirty
glass. We’d drawn trees last night. At the table. Water boiling. Coniferous,
you’d said, tapping on my page.

This morning, you
asleep. I lean against the door watching mist move and grass, too,
below as fish. Wood knotty underfoot. Soon, birdsong, and

ours. Adjusting eyes. Fixing plates. Steaming eggs. Let’s hold
hands today, after planting flowers. You nod. And then,
at a grass patch.
Sycamore, you say, pointing past

the plot. Near the school. We stop. Slow rising sun, softly fill afternoon’s warm
green mist. Lean on my shoulder
as we leave Daughter’s headstone.

Author: poetryfest

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