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excerpt from Community Life

 

She has my hand   I want

to show you   points to the field,

plans for spring. A hard wind

hits, whips at her hair. March.

Mud slopping under our boots   collars up   I touch

the holy medal in my pocket, with a thumb

follow the lines of a figure

there: serene, her long robe,

the baby she holds. The sun

is about to break through,

something’s in the air: my name

is hung in the air, a call

from the others, waving

at the edge of the field...Sharon...

There’s a crack of orange light.

Now. A blackbird

lifting off dips its wing

and squawks. The past is done.