A day will come when Finding yourself alone You will come to terms With your true self You’ll come to the mirror And welcome your face And be kind to the person You see in your reflection A time will come when You’ll grow to understand The value of your own friendship And the wisdom of your own advice You’ll curl up in a comfortable chair With a cup of forgiveness, and a good book You will read it a while Then turn out the light. By Diane E. Dockum ©April 28, 2014 Reposted April 9, 2023
A leaf shudders Without sound As the breeze passes by And no one sees The movement The sun slides across To the other side of day The cicada sings To hear itself The chair on the dock Rocks gently When ripples lift The wooden wharf Eventually two moons One high One floating As the river changes Places with the rain Do tear drops Return as clouds And rain again over Fields of roses? By Diane E. Dockum August 29, 2022
It’s almost here that time of year when seasons change The ground takes off her wedding gown exposing brown and green a faded green awaits the sun for now, she sleeps while seedlings stretch and yawn her child-lings yet to be And gentle wisps of moving air will jostle stubborn leaves Like teacups on the sodden grass they fill with sugar snow and yet the sun, though cold and vague, shows dusty falling flakes Here and there their contrast shows against the hedge’s row. On the tops of cedar tips, the early spring remains just out of reach and white still grips the fingertips of tender growing trees.
by Diane E. Dockum
© April 1, 2022
Lunch
In my car
Alone
And surrounded
by others alone
Having lunch
In our own cocoons
Watching the lady in the tan SUV
Parked on a hill
Reading a paper back
I wonder what it is
I remember reading in my car
But, it’s been a while
The man next to me
Stares sourly into his salad
Picking the best pieces
Looking out at traffic
Chewing with a thousand yard stare
© 2016, Diane E. Dockum
Bohemian Waxwings
On an April morning
Arrange themselves like musical notes
Upon bare upper branches
Against a backdrop
Of open sky
Sweetly trilling secrets
On the brisk air
As one
They descend
To the patchy snow
To pick the seeds
Scattered there
Pointed topknots
Ruffling in the breeze.
©Diane E. Dockum, 2015
Marble Hill Press 