Lucy’s Light
The rain is slipping them out of their ceremonies
to begin winter, her father walking the garden
threatening to cut down the bare plum
and pear, and her mother running
after, pleading that the trees
will fruit in summer,
her mother’s hurta
eaten together while they ask
the longest moon to scatter silver in
their hair at an angle so narrow that each
sees the bits of blackened iron stuck in grass
at their feet as cloves in the shining flesh of apple.
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Categories: Making Sense
Claire, thank you for this so-skillful, spare poem that contains so much to think about, and builds to such that astonishing image at the end.
I wholly agree with Beth. I also love the visual shape of the poem, the way it breathes in and out.
(o)