Wind In The Timothy Press
Back Issue
AN EVENING WALK IN SUMMER RAIN The road is slick; the potholes glisten like wet lily pads. From the corn field something trills pursed kisses. No street lights here, just the pink glow of Penacook and a lone porch light at the road’s far end. I tilt back my head to catch the silent drops. They say turkeys drown this way but tonight it would take hours. --brenda joziatis
AN EVENING WALK IN SUMMER RAIN
The road is slick; the potholes glisten like wet lily pads. From the corn field something trills pursed kisses. No street lights here, just the pink glow of Penacook and a lone porch light at the road’s far end. I tilt back my head to catch the silent drops. They say turkeys drown this way but tonight it would take hours. --brenda joziatis
The road is slick;
the potholes glisten
like wet lily pads.
From the corn field
something trills pursed kisses.
No street lights here,
just the pink glow of Penacook
and a lone porch light
at the road’s far end.
I tilt back my head
to catch the silent drops.
They say turkeys drown this way
but tonight
it would take hours.
--brenda joziatis
brenda joziatis considers herself a short story writer, not a poet, but occasionally she fools people and they call it poetry.
