Spring 2015
der Tisch by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
Not a breeze nor a whisper
as I pull up the wicker chair,
notebook and pen in hand.
I lean on my faithful friend,
a circular table,
der Tisch
on the balcony of our fifth floor apartment
in Trier.
An occasional lost bumble bee
collides with the glass door,
the size and sound exaggerated
in the stillness.
I count back time,
this little table and I.
It has endured six long winters
piled high with a halo of snow,
layer upon layer of packed ice
and six sweltering summers,
abandoned, motionless,
only the sun’s direction lending shade
with the growing days.
I wonder what it would say
if it could speak?
This tiny outside space,
mit meinem Tisch
kept me sane
in my Trier years.
The Linnet's Wings Poetry
The sheep pen, moonlight, Jean-Francois Millet
On this sun-blessed day in March,
we bask in the warm glow of spring,
and somewhere below
in this concrete city life
a dog barks, cats bicker,
but the table and I sit like old pals
with a pot of Barry’s tea.