Poetry – Issue 2 | December 2008
Two Poems by Christine Potter
April 1st, Route 43, Massachusetts
Mustard-colored colonial houses
set in long, flat, dormant fields, also
mustard-colored. Near a pond milky
with snow melt, the last clump of snow,
haloed in fog. It is sixty-five degrees,
and some other houses here are old
but were never beautiful. This one
is colorless except for the Fourth of July
bunting and Christmas candy canes lining
its front porch. Even the sky seems
drained, but the wind is picking up and
you and I are almost where we’d planned
to be at day’s end. Thunder’s in the forecast—
no joke. And just now, something is
turning over in its den, ready to awaken.
About the author
Although she has homebody instincts, Christine has traveled extensively throughout the United States, the UK, The Netherlands, Germany, a little in France, and gotten hopelessly lost with her usually GPS-like husband outside of Prague in an un-airconditioned rental car on a very hot day. Christine Potter has been head moderator at The Gazebo for longer than she wants to consider; she often publishes in small magazines such as Tipton, Mimesis, and recently, Eclectica. Her first collection of poems, Zero Degrees At First Light, is available at Amazon. Christine lives in an old house on a creek at the beginning of the NYC exurbs with aforementioned husband and two fat, spoiled pussycats.
