CCW Finalist, Poetry
The breeze is a postcard mailing itself tosome far away place. Tonight, a little of the road, of the drifter in us as we wander the souvenir shops crammed with shells, with key chains and mugs that keeppromising to give more than they can. The flash of a camera, and the moon sailing up with its cargo of light so weightless it could drop a man to his knees. Like theman by the fountain in the cobblestone square who is lifting his guitar from its case. The music and the soft throat of evening. And a season that is changing its mind, is turning to leave. Like the womanat the sidewalk café who is gathering her straw hat and purse, and the breeze thatblows out the candle on her table, as if someone has just made a wish.
Margaret J. Hoehn