• leaflet

    . . .a thin triangular flap of a heart valve. . . a small book usually having a paper cover . . . a medical lit-art e-journal from The Permanente Press
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Poetry, Vol 6: Iss 1

Driving slowly on this winding mountain road

hands clutch the steering wheel, tires creep along whitened asphalt

as snowflakes fall like shredded tissue paper

flying by the thousands toward my windshield,


As if the road passes through a tunnel filled with souls

seeking their way past me, each hurriedly moving onward to some destiny,

their random motion frenzied in proportion to the brevity of their existence;

wipers sweep them away rhythmically, clearing space for vision.


On morning nursing home rounds, she sits tilted upright in a hospital bed,

white hair like snow, pristine through decades of winters gone by,

fore-locks curling, bobbing slightly in time

to her own story of falling on city streets.


From bus-stop to bank on city blocks measured by an old woman’s legs,

the cold of winter extracts its toll like a greedy troll under the bridge,

robbing once youthful thighs of strength,

legs aware now of new limits and uncertain arrival.


Swept in a vortex toward a center of solitude

with awareness of time coming to a close,

the hurried passage of snowflakes in a storm

move on to destinations no longer.



Comments (2)

  • Thomas Tesoriero

    Thomas Tesoriero

    23 October 2019 at 21:35 |
    A beautiful and sensitive poem which evokes memories of practice and of family
  • Luis Oropeza

    Luis Oropeza

    23 October 2019 at 17:56 |
    Dear David, Irma and I are very happy and enjoyed so much reading your poetry, a big hug for you,