On Mornings When Half-asleep, I Dream to the Radio by Roger Adams & Lori Howe

On mornings when half-asleep,

I dream to the radio.

Newscasters fall in love,

sipping coffees,

making plans,

making love,



I fell for one voice, hard.

I was in a car with her

on a long drive across a field

of wheat at the golden hour;

deep blue above the rolling yellow.

My arm around her shoulders,

we followed the only road.

Her head resting in the crook of my elbow,

I leaned over and kissed her, once,

and then again.


Amidst the glowing rows of wheat:

a single tree.

We stopped under its swooping

branches, turned off the car.

I caressed her hair,

silver shimmering in my fingers.


High above,

inside his curtain of leaves:

a red-tailed hawk,

silent and approving.

The tree, the softest kind

of fortress,

protective and silent,

smooth as elephants

in the glassine air.


I smelled mint on strands

of her hair…

my hand followed the curves

of her neck…

her elbows…

the slender aspens

of her wrists.


We leaned into the sun-warmed tree,

let the breeze carry our voices

to the hawk in his blue frame of leaves–

“This love is no dream.”

Categories: Issue 1 - Fall 2011, Periodicals, Poetry | Leave a comment

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