by Robert Fillman

Late spring morning. I’m snapping
pictures of covered bridges,
camera in hand, admiring
from way down the embankment,
where new grass meets foundation—
no pedestrians, no cars—
just cropped-out metal guardrails—
capturing a sideways glance
that favorably distorts
the weathered red planks of wood
and few missing gray shingles.
Each shot makes certain that clumps
of daffodil sprouts remain,
the crumbling stone walls covered
in a yellowy-green moss
retain most of their welcomed
picturesque unevenness,
the quick trickle of the creek
over unraked winter leaves
always reflects the sunlight.
              These days I attain something
              so near what I am after
              I despair coming closer.


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