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Poetry

The leaves on the lawn are brown.
Beneath them, the wet ground.

Beneath them, the silver roots.
Beneath them, the darkness.

Given the chance to change,
you hold on, the fist

a clenched bulb.
Last year’s tulips come up again,

smaller, shorter, failing—
the stunted stem a symptom.

The rain tastes like copper,
an old coin on the tongue.

Across the yard, the poppies
have reseeded themselves—

sharp filigree of bright green.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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