A Year in Sentences – a poem by Matthew Miller

A Year in Sentences

This first snow falls 
like a pleasant chord, fingers stretched 
pianissimo on their knit hats.

In flat panoramas, rain dribbles 
then gathers to nap 
on the shoulders of back roads.

New light spills sideways, like a child 
from a spiral slide, dizzy 
but climbing up again.

When streams release mighty sighs, 
delight in smooth crests of stone 
peeking from lapping waters.

Long exhales into tense film 
send momentary bubbles 
drifting above the midway.

Kayaks in cold currents float 
beneath fir and lodgepole, 
paddling faster to what end.

Coneflowers explode 
beside the road; then bend away 
in breezes spun from bike tires.

With wild lines, house flies 
buzz ripe peaches, while raw grapes hide 
behind fuzzy tomato vines.

After yesterday's rain, impromptu 
ponds cast yellow shimmers 
between rows of cut stalks.

The sun withdraws, a taut 
pumpkin softly collapsing 
in the wind's bitter caterwaul.

Brittle leaves scrawl 
an unfathomable dispatch, 
a cursive labyrinth on the lawn.

On the porch, two spruces 
dappled in descending beams 
from outstretched lights nailed above them.

Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create a home. He lives beside a dilapidating apple orchard in Indiana, and tries to shape the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been published in Flying Island, Remington Review and is forthcoming in Whale Road Review.
WEBSITE: https://mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry

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