Three Quarter Time Poem by Eric Cockrell

the smell of woodsmoke
lingers in the air;
darkness falls,

like silent thunder.
the earth tremors and turns,
you walk from room to room....

or perhaps only,
a curtain blown by passion,
a broken cup, cobwebs

on pulsing walls.
a cry of passion,
water bursts the pipes...

one of my shirts
that you wore to bed.
a single shot

on a November morn....
the deer falls in
three quarter time.

sheets that still
carry your scent...
the ground naked,

and hungry for rain!