®

Today's poem is by Jennifer Barber

Reinante

Dust of wheat
when there was wheat
and on the hill, smoke—the pines

burning on their own
or set on fire.
Next to the burro, a goat,

next to the axe, a scythe.
In a town this small,
no one forgets.

The sunflowers know
what winter is—
frost on the lemons,

a burnt taste in the air.
You drink slowly
at night, alone.

The weight of the unsaid
unfurls a dark
lily in your heart.



Copyright © 2007 Jennifer Barber All rights reserved
from Rigging the Wind
Kore Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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