Poetry Porch: Poetry


By Robert K. Johnson

is nothing like the ones
that lumber into a week
in July, squat—stolid
as an invisible tank—

and weigh down the air with a heat
so heavy even the bees
linger on the nearest petals,
too exhausted to fly.

An autumn stillness comes
as a quick surprise. The breeze
suddenly turns quiet
while the trees’ fluttering leaves

lock in place and the leaves
that floated down on lawns—
as if on signal—stop tumbling
over the tops of the grass.

The stillness holds you, too,
although you know it soon
will break and re-enter time’s flow,
forcing you to do the same.

Copyright © 2015 by Robert K. Johnson.