Contributor: Richard Hartwell

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Morning pine whiff, sun-warmed pinesap,
spiced nostrils, aroused, alert, erect;
fresh-baked bread would be no match.

Fountain’s call, gilded-fish splashes,
syncopated waterfall backbeat;
ears lightly titillated by liquid allegro.

Soft zephyr, arm hairs whisked into
pleasure-shaking goose bumps;
ablutions bestowed by blowback spray.

Dandelion stem plucked and sucked,
transport to times lost, miles trod;
tongue-tasted sweet and tart memories.

Turtledoves glimpsed atop the wall, two,
spied a third, shunned, wooing a mate,
only empty nest’s bitter greetings remain.


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Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large, and that the instant contains eternity.