Aching tones waft
over early dawn grass;
a hush is cast
while I garden.
Prayer-like entreaties
from two doors down,
invisible maker
of delicate sounds.
Softer and softer
her tune seems to be;
her notes choke,
wrenching me.
I can hardly bear
the sweet, sad song,
mingling,
with wind on the lawn.
Carolyn Cecil participates in a monthly poetry critique group in Baltimore and enjoys the Ligonier Valley Writers’ Conference and Delaware’s Milton Poetry Fest. Her poems have been in the Broadkill Review, More Stories website, Poet’s Ink, and The Gunpowder Review.
