Terry W. Ford



The pewter tray on my buffet;
three dainty, crystal white wines
(my younger daughter broke the fourth
playing cocktail party);
in my golf bag, a putter
nearly a foot too long for me;
on the shelf above the tub,
a rubber duck I bought
to keep you company
during your inordinately
long times in the bathroom.


In the attic, a candy box
full of drink stirrers, wine corks,
theater tickets, a few letters,
a ramshackle, old, resort hotel on a postcard—
funny cards that say,
I love you.


A handsome couple in a photograph:
She laughs at him.
He drinks champagne
from her shoe.


Irrelevant residue.
Dusty treasures.
All that’s left of you.





Winter Colors


Allie, allie in free
Distant voices, strangers’ children.


In the shrubbery winter birds
crack seed from a neighbor’s feeder.


Tangled, leafless,
dogwood twigs slice
across an icy early April sky
the blue of Siberian Squill,
the azure of a Nordic eye,
the hue of a nursery blanket.


Dividing the trees,
late winter’s slanting light
leads on toward home.


It will be silent there.
The feeder hangs unfilled.


Our lightning-shattered willow’s roots
have rotted into food
for next month’s bright new grass—
the glaring color of last year’s
Easter basket cellophane.

Terry W. Ford





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