each end a child holding summer’s vanilla cone. Proud they are plump

The Field Bushes of death-berries near the bus stop begged me to take their picture last week. Branches whip their winter fruit, heavy at the end, as proud as a child holding summer’s vanilla cone. Proud they are plump, ready for the eating, stiff sticks shake nervous in the morning fog— Remember us, this field of us!ContinueContinue reading “Poem: The Field”