Sage
Stone, a self-proclaimed amateur anthropologist and tomato aficionado, is originally from a small Louisiana Cajun town about
an hour west of New Orleans. Now residing in northwest Florida, Sage spends her time gardening, designing jewelry, caring
for her beloved animals, and writing poetry.
Poetry by Sage
frost on the blossom—
a slight hesitation
in her smile
~~~~~~~~~~
porch gossip—
every last pea shelled
from its pod
~~~~~~~~~~
rain on the bayou—
just enough moon to silver
the ripples
~~~~~~~~~~~
meadow daisies—
in my daughter's arms
a child of her own
~~~~~~~~~~~~
my father the fisherman
sheds tears for his flooded home—
sometimes
it’s
the river that
does the taking
~~~~~~~~~~~
river reeds
older
than religion—
is it a god,
this sudden stirring
among them?
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday bells
the wide-open mouths
of sparrow hatchlings
published in Modern Haiku Autumn
2016
if only you
could have stayed longer
little sparrow
how suddenly you've become
the autumn wind
published in Skylark 3:2
half
in snow
half
in moon,
the mountain pine
~~~~~~
a bell in the fog
now
and then,
the surfacing
of goats
~~~~~~~~~
little brown sparrow
chirping on my windowsill,
could my heart
soar any higher if
you were cornflower blue
~~~~~~~~~~
perhaps I'm too set
in my ways
for love—
a grey, grey winter
yet a red bud unfurling
from the windowsill cactus
~~~~~~~~~
a dandelion—
for a wish that
could not
possibly
come true,
I puff with all my might
~~~~~~~~~~
somewhere
along
the rings
of this old climbing tree
is me in pigtails
musing among its branches
~~~~~~~~~~
it’s all come down to
a copper-colored moon
at my window
and a calico cat purring
in the crook
of my arm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a descendant of
an African slave
woman,
I search my face
in the mirror
are
these brown eyes hers?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
a ravine
deepened by wind and rain
I run
a finger
down the crease
between my eyebrows
website: https://www.sagestonepoetry.com/
Twiter address: https://twitter.com/sagestone_
