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poet.
performer. activist. teacher.
CACOPHONY
OF CROWS
We turned, and leaned against the world.
I rested there, with my eyes closed,
even the eyes of my eyes closed,
while the fray of my nerves
lay fallow and healing.
The earth itself turned; the red dirt
leached and emptied,
long after the fertile fire had gone out
and my face was painted with its ash
and broken seeds.
My
little love, it was such a long winter.
Even after the Equinox, the earth refused
to be dried out. The rains kept coming,
and that hanging chill, even in early June,
refused to leave the air or the fields,
still left dormant.
At
market, the farmers say
no seed will take in the running rains,
the floodplains created by the thaw,
or within the chill itself.
When they say,
"the growing season will come in her own time,"
the tone is less of statement and
more of simple prayer.
Above
their voices, I could hear the crows.
When I opened my eyes and left the leaning
against to stand along the axis of the earth,
I could see them in the trees.
Beneath their wings was the sky, a blue
too enormous to be owned by a name.
I could feel the sun, finally,
in my hair, unbound.
The wind was there in it, too…
talking to her,
almost whispering.
© 2003 Dora E. McQuaid
final version will be available in "Horses Overhead"
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is available for readings, speaking dates, and workshops
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To discuss bookings with Dora, or to order books or cd's, please contact her at:
575.613.2947
doramcquaid@doramcquaid.com
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