dash
The Gleaners
after the painting by Millet

Gleaners

Our fingernails are clogged with grit and blood
and loam made from the bones that bowed before.
We are your poor, grubbing for a few small seeds and stalks,
gleaning just enough to call a life
while your sheaves gleam like gold on our horizons.
 
dash
 
Bindweed

bindweed

They‘re all along my path today,
trumpeting their purity—
a flawless, beaming sisterhood.
But I know how they clutch and cling.
The seed, they say, can feign its death
for half a century or more,
then spring to life, unkillable
as sibling rivalry.
 
Annie Fisher

If you have any thoughts on these poems, Annie Fisher 
would be pleased to hear them.


logo