Poetry by Scott Sprunger

One Moment 

Red cheek weather 
And Grandpa’s chili. 
Autumn’s fallen soldiers 
Kiss my mothers headstone. 
Hot, thick, wool pants; 
Red and gray hunting socks. 
New rubber boots with Indiana clay 
Swallowing their 
Soles. 
Patience. 
Deer hide gloves 
Gripping, squeezing, 
A pheasant cartwheels through a puddle. 
It stops to stare at its refection in a 
Dented, scarred hubcap near 
My foot.

 Overcoat Road 

The family farm, 
A white washed wood frame 
Built by his father, 
His left hand missing, 
Taken by a thresher 
When he was twelve. 
The porch swing on rusted chains squeaking 
As the night breeze swung 
It to and fro. 
A road with grass growing between the ruts, 
Made by neighbors and the occasional 
Lost traveler. 
It’s lined in barbed wire, 
And bathed in the spring song of the sparrows 
While white clouds fly west. 
She would greet the sun, 
Lifting a flannel shirt 
Bathing in the scent 
Of his soap and aftershave. 
Dry scratching of broom bristles 
On the oak floorboards of the porch. 
The Montgomery County heat hung 
Thick and heavy 
On her face, 
And the soft touch of his hand 
On her neck comforted her. 
Smiling, and raising her chin 
The ghost of a cobweb hanging 
From the porch light. 
Loneliness settled into summer 
As he whispered 
From across the rows of corn, 
The stalks slow dancing 
To a breeze she could not feel. 
The sideways rain 
On a night in October, 
The patter of raindrops 

Sunflowers 

Desperate days choking
Life from me.
I wonder aimlessly through city and country looking
For my end of the road.
Gravel road with weeds invading,
Swallowing the ruts leading
Me to a quiet field that hides
Me from all hope.
Through teary eyes searching
For the bottle of remedy stowed,
A yellow ripple rises
And falls in a sea of green.
Wiping my eyes reveals
The great heads nodding
Of a field of sunflowers.
They’ve always reminded me of giraffes,
Bulbous heads on thin necks moving
At a slow gallop.
Filling the field, edge to edge,
Road to road hiding
A neon yellow sign perched in a bucket.
Hope still hid from me, but curiosity came to play.
Fumbling through the field fingertips trailing
Across the soft yellow pedals surrounded
By the hum of worker bees carried
Me back to when I was a child.
My heart began to lighten, and somewhere I found
A smile and a song to hum.
The sign read,
“My wife’s sunflowers, as beautiful as she.
Please take 1 or 10, but please just leave a prayer that she beats her cancer.
Signed, a loving husband.”.
The tears threatened to return bringing
Dark clouds with them.
A reminder that the flowers owner and I will someday expire.
A flash of hot pink in the weeds catches
My eye. Lifting the poster board
Scrolling letters scribed with a Sharpie have their say.
“’Come to me all of you who are weary, and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’
My flowers are my hugs, my kisses to you. We are in this life together.
Signed, a loving wife.”
Falling to my knees surrendering
To the weight of hope
And love that has always surrounded me,
I was just too blind to see.