Umbra Poem By Dana Goodyear

We share a habit of accepting hospitality.
Mix, Bless, Count, Drink—instant indispensability.
You are (you stir) relaxed, on novel number three.
English major, accent minor.
Trace. Ohio crossed with stroke of luck—
to other manners born.
It smells like heaven here.
Clover mown, clever man.
O kept bohemian—come walk with me.
See, on the potato fields, a haze.
They’re up for sale by Sotheby’s.
Estates already named: Duplex Oblige, Feigned Ease.
At night, the floodlights silver
These new-minted trees.
White ash. Prefabricated legacies.
Not bad for weekend company.

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