Bill Galvin Poems

Sorting through words and pages
From chapters of former lives;
Recalling plays from many stages;
Seeing what, if any, survives.
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I heard them early in the morning…
Large acorns falling from on high;
Onto the roof where I was sleeping
In a craftsman-style house, on a quiet tidal cove,
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Lady standing at her kitchen window,
Hands managing the soapy dishes,
Eyes regarding the kitchen garden outside,
Fingers remembering the dark moist earth,
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"Floriography…"
"Language of flowers? " posed she.
"Since Shakespeare, " said he.
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thAt
Last gust was the strOngest yet,
and the souNds drew my attEntion
to the Bare tree branches
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She is happiest when she is with her horse, Vanna.

Not her pet, but her soul-companion,
Who will never let her down.
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Thought of you recently, Ron… the old times,
The hipper ways of our younger days,
Back in the late 60s, early 70s…
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The sound of breezes
Blowing through the young new leaves…
A fresh green season.
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Starlit night skies, even without a moon;
The plaintive call of that lonesome loon;
Raindrop craters on a smooth sand dune;
Life well done, though it be done too soon.
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Ah… if only we all could make the most of what we're given, and only need to the level that we can afford, and be satisfied with it all.

After a long gabfest of basic human observation, and since there were no other customers, she walks to the back room of her store and comes back to show me a framed photo of her Dad, with his granddaughter on his lap. So proud was she, of this photo of Dad with her daughter; as was he, to be holding her, this flaxen-haired girl of his girl. He wears a plain ball cap… no holograms, no neon stitching, no trademark logos… just, "Pollock, South Dakota, Farmer's Collective" printed on it.
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