Author's Note: This is another poem from Some Glad Morning (Pitt Poetry Series, 2019), written when I was living and writing in a small (4 person) artist retreat in the southwest corner of France. It was such an escape from the rest of the world, and I hope this handful of words will take you there, too.
I should be writing the troubles of the world—Lord knows we’ve got them right now— but instead, I am sitting here idly, chronicling the journey of the clouds as they traverse the September sky. The river unravels her slub of parachute silk. Darting in and out, a squadron of martins, les hirondelles de la rivage, stitch up the remnants of this afternoon. I should be leaden with fear and foreboding, hearing leaders hurl words like boys in a schoolyard. But I think my job is to sit here, polished by the sun, and let the clock of the world unwind. Trees are murmuring the ancient tongue of leaves, and the sun’s oven door is ajar, warming my bones. I think my back is about to sprout wings.
Originally published in Some Glad Morning
©2020 Barbara Crooker
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