My new poem I’ve just finished, “Come Sing A Song With Me.”

 

Come Sing A Song With Me

I walk this path,

not feet nor miles,

just up the street

to a small stand 

of milkweed pods

which beckon

remembered 

cattail dipped 

ponds and a 

family farm 

where wood 

stove ash 

plumed into 

the sky as my 

grandmother rolled 

out the crust

for mincemeat pie.

I walk this path  

accompanied 

by a nearby jay 

and a cawing crow 

wondering if 

I have shelled 

peanuts to throw.

I stop on the 

curved and flower 

flecked curb 

to quickly sketch 

the charcoal briquette 

of a Sweet birch 

tree’s bark,

it’s limbs now 

mostly vacant 

of its yellow 

leaves.

I walk this path

and see ahead 

my stopping place 

before turning back 

just as an older, 

larger crow spies 

my cow butter 

colored coat and 

caws as if to utter,

“Come now,

the field and 

its mice are far, 

but the silky floss 

of milkweed pods

are so near,

my dear.”

I walk this path 

of labored cement

spotting beneath 

brittle and curled

fern fronds and 

browned-tipped reeds 

plaques engraved 

with green fish 

and “Green Streets”

marking where 

planted milkweed 

fed migrating 

monarch butterflies 

now diapausing 

in Mexico.

I walk this path 

as a fenced 

dog barks

and a car, not a 

goose, honks.

I stand before 

the milky mouths

of grayish-brown

milkweed pods 

and watch their 

seeds rise and flutter

into the soft wind

of an autumn breeze

and find myself 

wanting to be

kissed

passionately.

I walk this path

back now as 

night descends.

The shadows of

a Western Red

cedar tree’s

lower limbs craft 

silhouettes down

the leaf littered lane.

I’m almost home

as I see ahead

the lit night 

lanterns of

high-rise condo

windowpanes.

I walk this path 

peppered with

squirrel bitten 

purple figs

and bruised 

persimmons.

Reaching my

door steps, a 

long-favored tune 

dances in my head.

While turning key 

into lock, I croon 

“Come sing 

a song with me,”

adding “and with 

the milkweed 

we will be three.”

Susan Slocum Dyer

10/18/2025