First by Frank Praeger

But first, not always loss,
rhapsodic claims,
a cow inflexible but for its tail,
a horse's reply.
But first, compelling as a thought,
desire for unspent inner spaces
that neither mountain scapes or waterfalls satisfy.

A customary smile restored,
a zeroing out of each interrogation.
But first, braced for the next,
as an inattentive prompter looks away.
A permanent remorse settles.
The sky closes down
to grosbeaks on a branch,

to a stream's asynchrounous beat.

A lengthening shadow comprising three parts magic
covers an unfettered inside.
Coifed hair,
collapsible chairs
characterize a sun stunned patio.
And who was it that was once there,

who was it that collaborated in timely banter
as any two heads deal in closely held secrets?
What singular event holds steadfast?
Black-capped chickadees feed at the birdfeeder

A crow tops off a telephone pole.
Interpolated, dispelled,

whispering from among the fallen.
Results tabulated are inconclusive.
Still, the sky is breached,
an ancient resemblance redeems,
the shore clear of debris.


Frank Praeger, MI, USA