From deep within the rows of August corn, a trill,
vibrato—every other living voice is still
for just a breath. In tangled verge beside the field,
in trees, among the ears: cicada's well concealed.
Then locusts recommence their creaking, leaping—sticky
feet rebound off stems of thistle, chicory
and me, bare-legged, deep in milkweed. Blackbird's note.
I open woody pods, set flossy seeds afloat.
On porches, grandmamas weave ribbon out and in
and out of eyelets—stitch and snip, pin, un-pin—
for owners of curly-headed dolls. Yards of lace!
They're fastening the ends around the tiny waists
while grampas speak in adages, chaw, lament
the fish that got away. Ayup. And without
a pause, it's circling—as geese fly south and north
again and summer follows summer, bringing forth
another incarnation of this very thistle,
cricket, chicory and milkweed, ribbon, whistle
of blackbird and of train, the wispy rows of corn,
the grandmamas, the homilies—all circling, adorn
this life. Cicada trills again, from spot unknown.
Ayup. It's forty days till frost, grampas intone.


From Make for Higher Ground (Barefoot Muse Press, 2021).
Used here with permission.