Camera quick, snapping sparks from air,
hands that frame hammers and nails,
ladders leaned like spines on ribs,
his Stetson a crown against time.
Quicker than the bark splitting wood,
his fingers knowing the grain's past,
cattle lowing in rhythms of dusk,
hat tipped like the edge of an old moon.
The barn door groaning beneath his weight,
bolts fastening light inside its gait,
a lifetime bundled into thickened hands,
posing briefly, stiller than a shutter’s spit.
“Is it done?” hovering after his boots,
the errand never ends but circles wide,
splinters become steps across the land,
and roofs like film frames hold the sky.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 6th, 2025 09:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments2
Metaphors galore in this poem. Nicely done Gray
Cleverly crafted write with many meanings, leaving you to interpret how you wish, enjoyed the read
Thank You for sharing your feedback I appreciate your support
You are very welcome
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