The Fieldstone Review


A man stands by a silver tree, waiting,
his lean face drowned in shade, his hat
neither jaunty nor defiant, not quite
shabby, but clearly dated, out of touch,
like a photograph in black and white.
He reminds me of my dad, leaning
uneasily against the glistening trunk.

I am waiting too, for the phone to ring,
for email to pop up on my screen
with its musical ping! For the postal
truck with its red, white, and blue trim.
Be assured, I am waiting for my future.
I am waiting for the sky to open,
for a long, golden ladder roping to the moon.