One scent in early morning

sends me back to Granddad's farm

when summer's sun hung high

and cured the fresh-cut clover fields.


Like the dew it ripened

every shadow on the hillside

and wakened in my memory

the melody of hay days passed.


It was his silken whistle

that danced along the hollow

and loosened quiet thrushes' throats

and quickened ears of orioles.


That's the summer song I long for

sweet as clover still.


Jerome L. McElroy


*Accepted in Poet Magazine (12-93)


Leaf down day

When spandrels of yellow and crimson

Cascade against the stately maple's


Bark black face.

These gentle filaments of fire,

Messengers of winter making,


Flame out fast

Before the dusk when crows fly home

And heavens still.


Last sparks spray

And catch the sunset doubting

Anything more stunning is in store.


Jerome L. McElroy


**Accepted in Manna (9-93)