Reverie

Across an open wheat field,
harvesters are caught napping,
sprawled like starfish in billowed sleeves,
poet’s shirts with  rows of cotton folds
and collars that hint at tailor’s starch.
One tucks into the shape of sleepy squash,
another leans into a haystack–.
flushed with sleep, a ruddy robust harvester tumbles,
his unbuttoned shirt beckons my eyes to wander
my cheeks to press into the window of their tavern
rowdy up the rafters, an animated crowd weaving
a  loose maypole dance around an acorn floor
shaded in Breughel turquoise.

Author’s note

Susan Tally

This community has so much to offer!

Like jumping onto a spinning merry-go-round –

Like getting on the bus, as opposed to not getting on the bus.

I am looking forward to seeing our collection in its entirety;

and to the next poetry workshop coming up.

Just a shout out to my cat who doesn't know

she is Greta Garbo on and off the screen.