by Joyce Sutphen

In the afternoon of summer, sounds
come through the window: a tractor
muttering to itself as it

pivots at the corner of the
hay field, stalled for a moment
as the green row feeds into the baler.

The wind slips a whisper behind
an ear; the noise of the highway
is like the dark green stem of a rose.

From the kitchen the blunt banging
of cupboard doors and wooden chairs
makes a lonely echo in the floor.

Somewhere, between the breeze
and the faraway sound of a train,
comes a line of birdsong, lightly
threading the heavy cloth of dream.


  1. Wonderful poem. Very interesting photo.

  2. Because of the long winter and cold spring - harvesting is behind here by about 3 weeks.

    Your pic made me look twice.

  3. I too glanced twice at the picture-first time convinced I was dizzy again and the second confused. :)

  4. There's just so much to love about this poem.

  5. Sigh . . . another perfect pairing of perfect words and perfect image! You are something else!


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