i saw Grandfathers face on the cave
mouth, coulda used a shave.
as we clumb, sky did, in blues gradient
as my home screen, sheer yellow
lambs fleece formed meringue peaks.
i saw my own profile in cirrus,
the details so exact, i couldnt tell
what she was thinking. white sun spilled
onto the western hills like Gold Medal
flour from a gunny sack
Grandmother could mix in the morning.
Brothers smile a bear had scratched
into the shrinking poplars siding,
marked summers grave.
Beverly J. Wilcox has had work appear in numerous small mags like The City, Green Panda Press, Spl*t Whiskey and obscure mags you’ll never read.