Poem

 

Meadow

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

 

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