Poem of the Month

Any Friday in July

The dry lawn, dun-colored
with buttercups and clover,
the children grown
and gone, their babies
come in guises
just yesterday to visit
you—the crone who doesn’t
garden, who can’t lean
or bend or flutter,
nor cartwheel.
You feel the chimes
wash you clean.
Ticking birds become
a clock. How many
concussions recede
only to return like the sea
to water your foundry?
What contains tears
of metal, sand all silica
so as to mold one accident
to another.