The season of victory ends with little notice,
———-—like the passing of a neighbor.
——————-—You hadn’t seen him

come out for the paper in weeks.
———-——Or is it the yellowing of a yard?

After spring passes, all that is below bakes
———-—like unleavened dough. You can stop
——————-—holding your breath now.

Nothing more extraordinary is coming.
———-—Not until, in the city of bread, bread
——————-—is delivered. Like a fine daughter—

No!—like a hungry daughter almost wet in the face
———-—with hope, you promise to return
——————-—for barley harvest and then for wheat.

 

 

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John Hart was born and raised in Kansas City, Kansas, and currently resides in Orlando. His poems have recently appeared in Southern Review, North American Review, and Prairie Schooner.

 

 

 

Photo by James Harris on Unsplash