February 2024
Bio Note: The shorter the days, the shorter my poems. I often think Whitman wrote all of his poems in summer. I have two chapbooks available, one at Red Wolf Editions and one from Red Bird Chapbooks.
Late Afternoon
already the shadows lengthen
and for a furious minute
I dig hard as if I had been lax
with the hours. As my labor drags,
I learn to use the shovel as a fulcrum,
appreciate the long shafts of evening light
reflecting softly off the house next door.
Winter
The last layer of leaves
rise from the flip of the rake.
The time to burn the leaves is over,
so they sit on top of one another
waiting to be taken away,
old hands folded over younger hands
waiting to say goodbye.
Crawlspace
The air between ground
and house is sparse,
breath rebounds
from a floor brace
and I face to face
with the ugliness of nails,
white mold on wood
and husks of dead bugs.
A spark from a miner’s lamp
shows a calcified reflection.
Right hand, left knee,
right knee, left hand,
I a toddler again,
under the tables of the tall.
©2024 Jeff Burt
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL