Sarah Escue

 

Fields grow numb with winter.
Through pines, the throaty pink
hour of evening staggers,
like a sleepy child heavy on her feet.

Need I remind you?
All that’s still once fell.

In the garden, a maple unwrites
scarlet letters to dusk.
Forget-me-nots frost
and fall to the hard ground.

Birds fly in a V to somewhere warmer.

Here’s the bedroom: empty chest of drawers, raw mattress, flowers wilt on the windowsill.

Like January,
you came and went,
benumbing the earth,
ungardening all I planted.

*Originally published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry in 2016.

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