About The Oak Table Poem Number Four
Poem By Ivona Sophia
you brought me fresh cut flowers
this morning. the last of this autumn,
before the first frost. I wish I could
preserve their scent for winter evenings.
(I will find myself again in your voice
when you read for me
poems of Ezra Pound)
we live like hermits here, never asking for more,
self-sufficient, growing old
with the orchids behind the house.
on the table apples from
our tree. bittersweet taste under the skin,
with a juicy center.