I cleaned out our desk over the holiday weekend (doesn’t it feel fabulous to throw stuff away?!?) and came across a folder of my poetry all the way back to freshman year in college. Some of it made me cringe, but it’s not all bad. I thought I’d share a revamped version of one I wrote in the mid-90s (oh, so long ago!).
In June,
when nature’s bread oven
bakes ripe heads of grass
farmers take to the fields.
After day has drunk the dew
men mount tractors
and ride summertime roads.
I dangle from an apple tree,
At noon I am sent to the cellar
where empty jars line shelves
glimmer, alive in the light
from the open doorway.
I take one brimming with damp
to the well my father dug.
Men lift my sparkling gift
to labor seasoned foreheads,
cool their heat in satisfaction
of hand-dug cellar and well.
In June,
when days are sun-sodden I remember
nights always follow difficult days
when cicadas sing and grass roots
grow deeper.