Soaking up sun, by Tom Hennen

It’s been too long since we’ve seen the sun in these northern climes, but poetry will suffice for now.


Today there is the kind of sunshine old men love,

the kind of day when my grandfather would sit

on the south side of the wooden corncrib where

the sunlight warmed slowly all through the day

like a wood stove. One after another dry leaves

fell. No painful memories came. Everything was

lit by a halo of light. The cornstalks glinted bright

as pieces of glass. From the fields and cottonwood

grove came the damp smell of mushrooms, of

things going back to earth. I sat with my grandfa-

ther then. Sheep came up to us as we sat there,

their oily wool so warm to my fingers, like a strange

and magic snow. My grandfather whittled sweet

smelling apple sticks just to get at the scent. His

thumb had a permanent groove in it where the

back of the knife blade rested. He let me listen to

the wind, the wild geese, the soft dialect of sheep,

while his own silence taught me every secret thing

he knew.

– Tom Hennen


6 thoughts on “Soaking up sun, by Tom Hennen

  1. That’s a beautiful poem. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and smell the mushrooms. I hope you get some sun. I’d be happy trading you a little sun for a little rain. We need it out west.

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