SIDEWALK SHADOWS
Sunshine mottles
through leaves,
casting shadows
of silhouettes
on the pavement below.
Look down
on a constellation map
spreading out for pedestrians
who stroll along.
Daytime sparkle
stars laid out
to travel light years
from block to block,
wormholing through
galaxies of heat waves
between universes
of neighbourhood trees.
A PASSION IN DAYLIGHT
She greets the rising sun like her daughter
used to peek her head over the bed sheets
to squint her eyes in the daylight bursting
through her curtains.
But she has only herself to wake up now,
to sit in the sun with her sewing machine
like she used to do with her mamma cat
purring on her lap.
She stitches together patterns of cloth
that sprawl in Picasso cubism period.
Once sewn together the piece functions
under the interpretation in the eye
of the beholder.
Her daughter hated to wear handmade skirts
or perfect-seamed dresses.
One of a kind made no impression because
her daughter dreamed of conforming to her friends,
a blend of sameness unravelling at the hems.
BY DARKNESS
He cultivates his office like a burrow
with shades drawn, a 25-watt
light bulb illuminating his lair
so when he steps outside,
he squints with prairie dog eyes
standing upright to assess his dangers
before progressing outward
almost holding on to the door jamb
until his fingers brush nothing,
and he is released
to forage down the carpet hallway
until laughter whistles in his ears,
and he darts back
comforted by the darkness
of his office burrow.
KALEIDOSCOPIC PRIZE
This must be what it’s like
to walk inside a geode
when I step across
the cave’s threshold
and behold colours
sparkling in the interior.
An awe of wonder
in 360 degrees pushes
vertigo against my brain cells
attempting kaleidoscopic
reason between shape and colour,
Discovery of the prize inside
like in a box of Cracker Jacks...
the cave, the geode, the brain.
DRIFTWOOD WISH
Like dinosaur bones
scattered by scavengers,
driftwood tree trunks
lie on the sandy shore
awaiting discovery,
A crane-lifting ride
to the museum where
no seagulls sit and poop,
where no rain or wind
absconds with grains of self,
where a plexiglass sarcophagus
waits to house the carbon unit
behind fingerprints
and ooh/aah breath.
Diane Webster’s work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com
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