Poems
by Diane Webster

 

Why Alone

 

The tattletale tree

points across

the meadow

at the forest

lined up

in defiance

of the accusation.

 

The tattletale tree

wonders why

it stands

alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Inside The Box

 

Step inside the luminous box

of the window’s shadow.

Sunny, warm until

sundial time moves

the shadow across the wall

narrower, constricting,

smothering darkness

into a corner not turned …

gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Rusty Chains

 

Pile of chains discarded

like the hunted deer

shot, gutted

where it lies.

 

Mass of once-useful

organs linking life

now rusty handholds

awaiting disintegration,

separation by oxidation.

 

 

 

 

 

Dry Leaves

 

Autumn filigree

abandoned

on the ground;

a layer of leaves

disintegrates

into skeletons

cremated by touch.

 

 

 

 

 

Of Ruins

 

Old, abandoned

stone house

tumbles back

into disorder

as moss attaches

to the texture

to soften the blow

of ruins witnessed

through the open door

long gone

into the ground.

 

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