(Poem) Invitation by Phibby Venable

unnamed
Monica Woodard
I saw your sheets waving at a cloud
and knew you were home
Always inside canning something
you hope will bring you color in winter
A sterilized jar lid between your teeth
Your lips pursed into a grimace
that could have been a snarl
but only indicated a lack of enough hands

to boil, stir, pour, and cap

There is never enough time for anything
I saw that once in a fallen star
and in a wild night

when the wind blew the branches

into a straight out comb-back

But I am tired of all things terrible
and I need you to come tomorrow
for a more practical thing
The tomatoes are suicidal with ripeness –
their bodies bursting impatience
on a dying vine
The highway grows full by seven
come by the shaded back road

All the hatted daisies are in bloom

[Author’s Note: Written for Monica Woodard, friend, songwriter, musician, and

singer.]
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Sara Wright
Guest

I love the first line of this poem…there is something about sheets waving to clouds that reminds me of my grandmother reeling in the sheets in the late afternoon. Thanks.

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