by John Middlebrook
Wrapped up in the rustle around us,
I missed the texture and hue in your whispers.
You were delicate and soft as silk,
but I was sired from cottons and thistles.
Though the din stayed on as your sound faded,
broad cloths of intuition came to me whole.
Since then, I emulate the patience of wool, how it listens.
Details speak up and find niches, like many hands knitting.
Thoughts float in with milkweed seeds on sheers of wind.
And in the tattered gauze of rain, I hear wandering voices.
I know where they are going, from where they have been.
John Middlebrook lives in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where he manages a consulting firm focused on non-profit organizations. John has been writing since he was a graduate student at the University of Chicago, where he also served on the staff of Chicago Review. His poetry has recently appeared in journals including Grasslimb, Tuck Magazine, and the Tipton Poetry Journal. John’s home on the web is middlebrook.wordpress.com.