What the Mirror Does Not Show
by Susie Donnelly
one shade in the sky
just before the green flash.
I am a single car garage
with no automatic
door opener.
I am spooled
white thread wound tight,
waiting to mend.
I am a wooden clothes-pin
forgotten and grayed,hanging useless
on the backyard line.
I am steaming
black coffee,
rich and acidic,
needing to cool.
I am a deck of cards,
worn with bent corners
and missing the king of hearts.
I am a foreign coin,
valued only in exotic places
with cobblestone streets
and mysterious words.
I am homemade cornbread
easily prepared but
grainy on the palate.
I am a forgotten crystal rosary,
coiled in a corner
of the bottom drawer.
I am a vine maple leaf
in chilly October,
clinging to the limb,
destined to fall.
I am the sounds
of three a.m.,
hushed, whispered
but always present.
I am a shadow
of yesterday’s child;
a seed of tomorrow’s hope.
of yesterday’s child;
a seed of tomorrow’s hope.
About the author:
Susie Donnelly lives in SE Portland with her husband and their Goldendoodle. She has written poetry off and on (mostly off) for years.
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