after the painting by Millet
Our fingernails are clogged with grit and
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.
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.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Annie Fisher
would be pleased to hear