Hen houses fill the meadow:
each a metal barrel dumped on end,
lined into rows and deep columns.

Roosters stand atop the drums, their frames
shards of red and yellow,
or the luminous green of darkness.

There is only silence,
and the middle of their lives.

I am waiting like this too,
caught by the sun passing,
burning across the wild flowers,

blossoming among the milkweed
and the sweet stinging nettle.


Copyright © 2004 Linda Schaible



Early Snow At Cooper’s Farm

Poem Early Snow At Cooper's Farm Snow drops from the fanned branches of a pine, The flowering cones asleep in ice. A white-tailed deer backs into the shadows. I...

Mourning Dove

Poem   Mourning Dove There is a faint cooing, then the silence that comes with new snow and dusk. Buried in the hedgerow, where the moss and dead leaves smell...

Salmon Fishing

Poem   Salmon Fishing She says she has nightmares about the killing, then clubs a fluttering ghost of silver until it no longer moves. It is early morning, just...

Sheffield Steel

Poem   Sheffield Steel We are sitting in my mother's kitchen, drinking coffee and talking about nothing. she shows me a box of knives, the long blades reflecting...

Wild Pumpkin

Poem   Wild Pumpkin There is a place I have never liked: Jo Davis county, with its John Deere tractors and three a.m. families, dirty for life, and the Saguenay...

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