IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
Beneath the Lines
A poem
Laying in the cool of clover,
she views the intimacy of her mother’s clothes —
nightgowns dress nothing but air.
But if she squints her eyes against the sun,
and the wind fills them just right,
she envisions her rising
high above the lines.
In the enchantment replacing this ordinary noon
she fancies her among angels
robed in the nightgowns and bedclothes
dancing in the gales of June.
An aura of splendor attends the scene.
It is something of a spectacle from her vantage.
Though a moment will tell her,
she is no witness to sacrament
any more than her musings are words of prayer.
Nothing but early summer heat
rouses imagination that needs no cue.
Still, she cannot help but wonder
if grace is found in common hours:
violets that weave through the grass
the pure voice of summer wind
that blows past shadows thrown by the sun.
© Elisa Affanato
Thank you Jojo Teckina, for improving my poem.
Thank you, dear readers, for reading my poem.
