Triad by Adelaide Crapsey
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow ... the hour
Before the dawn ... the mouth of one
Just dead.
Sharing by Thomas D. Greer
Eyes shut,
biting his lip,
a solid, dusty, whump!
announces the summer triumph:
first catch!
We sit
on the front porch,
tugging the loose laces -
"It was my father's mitt, then mine,
now yours."
Later,
he gives the mitt
to his little brother,
explains the history and says,
"I'll share."
Visit Thomas D. Greer's poetry site, Brown Fedora.