The night sounds, your voice returning naked, crickets folded into the wall.
Fields retreat to their dark creases.
Light through the window is the moon hunting.
Now is the time of the good darkness
when our hands imagine the ripeness that awaits a feathery sun.
Evening
27 Thursday Jan 2022
Posted poems
in
Johnny Crabcakes said:
SO good to see your writing again. And so much of it! I clearly have a lot of catching up to do!
This is amazing work, Ron. Those first two lines just floored me.
“crickets folded into the wall.
Fields retreat to their dark creases.”
Such rich images.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ronald E. Shields said:
Thanks so much for reading all this, I really appreciate it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sillywilky said:
Wow! Such a treat to read all of you. It’s so nice to see you hear again! Beautiful works, Ron. Well done!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ronald E. Shields said:
Thank you for reading all this stuff! You are brave indeed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sillywilky said:
😂❤️
LikeLike