The eye of a vireo
like Dorothy’s ruby red,
when I actually see it
my grin opens wide.
The carpet newly vacuumed,
the dishes put away,
the sheets when pulled from dryer,
the smell of them laying down.
My father’s voice resounding
with ‘How great thou art’,
my mother’s apple pie,
no birthday went without.
The sun rising over Huron
and setting at Loon Lake,
the snow on trees in winter,
the leaves in fall to rake.
Martin’s arc of justice
for which we struggle still,
the ending of all war
the triumph of good will.
Anne's mediocre poetry 