Saturday, September 25, 2010


We are the hollow stems.
We are shades of color.
Our eyes follow the sun.

When rain comes we bow our heads,
cool water trickling down our necks,
seeping through soil
to fill the empty spaces.

And that cold on our toes
is like life from the Earth, itself,
struggling to climb toward the sun.
We are the conduit.

We are the quivering leaves
when night-rats return to claim the field,
but barn owls won’t bother themselves
about our trifling concerns.
They swoop. They snatch.

The crunch in hayloft rafters
leaves us free to be,
to mill about outside.
Our eyes await the dawn.

We are the hollow stems.
We are faces giving praise.

       *      *       *
This poem won first place in the Connecting with Art: Firing the Imagination Writing Contest. 
First published in The Rapids Review: A Literary Magazine, 2004.

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