Sunday morning, summer

Across the lake perhaps they hear her flute. She stands on our verandah, plays the scale And songs she learned last winter -- resolute And artless, leaning there against the rail, One bare foot keeping time. The music owns The morning: solemn, careful note, wood-pure, Fill empty space like early light, and tones That shape the summer day sound plain and sure. Passive, hunched, beneath an opal sky, Two fishermen in watercolor poses Rest their oars, and on the store nearby Half-hid behind a screen of cottage roses A woman in a cotton wrapper stands And holds an orang e, half-peeled, in her hands.

Share this story:

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK