Two Poems by Sharron Doyle


Small Blizzard, 7 A.M.

- for Elizabeth Bishop

I’m buying enough clocks
to follow me from room to room:
their faces admonish me
so that I won’t be too late.

Victoria stations the front room
Roman numeraled in courtly beech
every quadrant virtuous--
Queen--accurate--sure.

My north room is wound
in beveled bird song.
A mourning dove to soft shoe
day’s blue to night.

In the east room
circling grandkids
note that they were
oh--so young--when
they invented blizzard games
twenty Christmas Eves ago.

Out the parlor window I could
steam their snow fort packing thick--
icing up from body heat--
medieval turrets manned for war.
The Post War they called hot-cross chocolate,
double-buttressed popcorn balls,
knight to damsel hamwiches--
Perhaps, after all, time would not pass…

 

Through the Glass, Darkly

The infant twins
sit at attention
one cowlick turning east, one west.

Their blond curls
cut cute long
stutter when four palms play pat-a-cake;

they know this is the best game because
Mom and Dad picked out this stroller
so they’d always see each other--

but each sees himself, as it were--
poor Narcissus in the depths
of the riptide at the top.

Sharon Doyle