About The Oak Table Poem Number Three Poem by Ivona Sophia

sometimes our house is full of music
of the summer, bees dancing around
sunflowers, leaves swishing in the wind.
we listen to voices from the woods,
always different, always the same,
calling us outside. it’s getting hot.
you are fixing lemonade, spilling lemon juice
on the table. juice from your fingers on my lips.
tastes just right. we close blinds.
sometimes the house is silent,
but we are full of music.