Tuesday, 9 February 2016
Stunted thorns slump east.
Three red calves stand on the ridge
rumps to the west wind.
Rabbit weary grass
faints at the clump of his boots.
In the house below
she's folding dresses.
A thin surrender of smoke
waves like a torn flag.
By the time she leaves
he's sodden to his white chest
and the hearth is cold.
First published at Clear Poetry 21/1/2016
Monday, 8 February 2016
I will believe the Lord is good.
I will believe the land is kind.
I do believe the fruit will fall
if not picked first and where it falls
must be controlled for fallen fruit will
surely rot and rotten fruit will sour the lawns.
My husband knows the hand of God
and God himself has made it known
that we should pick the ripening fruit
and love and keep the seeds we've sown,
we've sown. The precious seeds we've sown.
The cellar doors have sturdy locks
the windows open just enough.
Enough to let His spirit blow
and keep the darkness holy, holy,
and clean the shade that breathes in there.
Our precious seed that breathes in there.
Published at http://visualverse.org/submissions/pretzl/ 5.2/16