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Faces come into focus
through my treetop window,
laughing, staring back at me.

I know it is just the light
forcing patterns of leaves
to emerge from shadows

but they are loyal comforts
to replace the bite of a shiraz
or a cool copper ale.

Every spring I analyze
new foliage as emptiness
fills in, and every summer

John Lennon returns,
always with his glasses,
never with Yoko.

The old woman’s knobby chin,
Basset hound’s droopy ears,
the sailor’s punched in hat,

all tight head shots, never
full figures, as if a face
is all that is memorable.

Yet I still feel the tremor
of your hand on the small
of my back, toes tracking mine.

Is this why the faces come to me
in my bed? So I will lose myself
in the leaves and forget you?


Maggi is a writer and visual artist in Carrboro (MFA, UNC-G).   She teaches poetry and painting to all ages in classrooms, retirement and hospital settings.  She is the author of State of the Heart: A Medical Tourist’s True Story of Lifesaving Surgery in India  (New Harbinger Publications, 2007).

Visit her at  

© 2010, Maggi Ann Grace

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