Barbara Brooks is a member of the lesbian writing community
Top of the Bridge
I climb onto the bridge’s railing,
toss your name into the wind
but it revisits me like the swallow.
I think I have captured you but
then you shift away like the fog
underneath the bridge.
The mist net will not catch you.
I watch you float down the river.
I think I am done with your memory.
But I am not. Grayness mists
around me. I shiver in the dampness.
I will forever be cold.
Looking into Silence
The quiet of the house when the dog
is gone rings undisturbed. Wind
purring through the pines is another quiet.
So is the crunch of a horse’s hooves
in sere autumn leaves. Evening has its
own calm as night bugs begin their chants.
Perhaps the quietest is snow sifting through
branches, settling on winter’s Little Bluestem.
The silence of a closing door.