and pretends it is not there,
and wanting less of fearfulness
I pretend that I do not see my camouflage, the wild promises
in my gaze, and step carefully by.
Morning, bitter morning—
lack and awful patience wait at every compass point.
Mourning, mournful, the prairie seals wind-scored stems with snow.
Here inside a stalk of goldenrod
a gall wasp will ride hard winter out.
Here between my ribs, wasps of lonely, wasps of
not yet, not yet wait and ride hard winter out.
Such a slow season, laggard and mean.
I can’t explain the cardinals I’ve seen of late,
but the crows’ black fists, the way they bully
eave and air, stab the morning with the sharpest awe,
I understand it now. I see the reason and agree.
- Wind Shear by Janice N. Harrington
Listen to the poem read the poem.
View all posts tagged as Poetry Friday at Bildungsroman.
View the roundup schedule at A Year of Reading.
Learn more about Poetry Friday.