TIRED (A Found Poem)

TIRED


Off the porch, the broom
lies askew in the garden:
but for the flowers on it,
it could have been
a discarded truncheon.

Sunlight through twigs
casts obscure sketches
on the walkway where
its handle points out
like a broken arrow to
the stone dog standing
by the leaf-strewn porch.

Leaves would not be
swept off soon while
the sun’s whiskers
slowly disappear.
Another storm gathers.
The night wind should
do the sweeping.

—A. B. Casuga
02-20-11

Images triggering the "found" poem.
A wind in the night swept the broom off the porch; I find it in the garden. A thin milk of clouds. The sun’s whiskers slowly disappear.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 02-20-11