The barn, your hands
A poem for the Dialogue Poetry contest
By Marsha SinghPublished 9 days ago • 1 min read
Photo by Rusty Watson on Unsplash
An old barn shrill with crickets' trill
(we snuck away to meet like spies)
tomatoes on the windowsill
(the car was hot against my thighs)
clover growing through the floor
(there was little time to spare)
summer here had grown indoors
(your hands were strong, and everywhere).
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Comments (2)
Outstanding.
Nice work!