Invitation From Hopper

She leans forward into the bay window.

Water, a long way off and a loon cries.

In the room, a man speaks,

someone listens.  Expectations

are set in motion.  She remains

frozen at the window, waiting,

not a matter of time.  The call

of the loon carries over the water.

Expectations have a way of shifting.


Though The Scream has been stolen,

Oslo keeps its appeal, the train ride

a preliminary.  Formal introductions

have their own façade.  Do you

bow or let your eyes reach

their own conclusions?  So much

has entered, rushing to fill the gap.


Still she leans into the morning light.

The thicket, green and familiar,

doesn’t distract.  Out there,

the air has a yellowness, lifting

from the tall growth gone dry.

Anticipation holds, a thread not quite sewn.

by Peggy Aylsworth   


By The Grace Of

The orange moon

plays the banjo, hot tempos

over blackest night

as the city bravely lights its tower-tops.

The beat

presses through glass.

Ovens blister

the sleepless in New York.

All things interior

breed new eyes, opening to the unseen,

held for the perspicacious

to uncover in the star-hung night.

Delicate lights

signal windows, signal pauses

for thought,

a revelation luminous as the moon.

Country calls can almost

be heard,

but their value


the impeded.

Night birds have nested

in the lungs

of many born in tall grass

gone dry,

grown foreign.

by Peggy Aylsworth

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