Morning Meditation

by | Sep 6, 2017 | Poetry


Deer tails on the wooded slope flicker like a woman’s hands
shaking off water. Crows sentry the yard.

Threading its red body around the shed, a fox slips down
an invisible sleeve—a magic trick.

The horse with a lilac mane I dreamt last night browses
spring’s thin grass. Her cream body

splotched as if with mold. She flinches, her belly a shoreline.
Come home, I say, for the last time

to the one person who can’t. My name a lychee in my mouth,
unfamiliar yet sweet.

The deer drown in the forest’s camouflage. Barefoot
as sunlight, I approach the horse.

It shakes its mane. Its whinny rinses the air.
The crows open their capes

like mouths and their mouths, glinting, drop
wet oracles on the ground.

Morning Meditation by Amie Whittemore

Photo used under CC.

About The Author


Amie Whittemore is the author of the poetry collection Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press) and co-founder of the Charlottesville Reading Series in Virginia. Her poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Sycamore Review, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.