Underscored,
my roots grow silver, lengthen and fracture:
a mix, a pinch, a press of shadows
spun
to
waxen ligatures.
Underground,
I sieve the earth, save the rest,
all that is settled, parenthetical,
the glint and spark of what resists.
JENNIFER BARBER
These
These are the Days of Awe,
not marked on my calendar.
The covenant with gravity
lifts and loosens the leaves,
a last warm breeze.
I lie down in the grass.
Fragments of verse
circle me like dogs .
The house of the dove is empty,
an eagle stuns its prey.
Owls wait
in the broken walls
for a darkness they can hear.
