Blackberry Winter
Dwaine Rieves To belong, to contribute, to have been and still be-- the dark morning birds are beyond squawking. Rain—joyless as a bad decision—has finally stopped. Caladium fronds hang spineless over the pot’s blue lip. Deep down, what’s not lifeless is suffering. Only ferns rejoice in their damp residue. They tower like spiders seeking success in drier corners, which flies and precocious gnats covet for similar reasons. If only our years didn’t bondage our bodies like celestial tasers. Spiders simply follow their needs, ferns their nature. A horsefly does what it must. Even big death is inconsequential. Of failure or death, birds could care less. They go blameless as weather. Work is a warbled throat, an appointment we make to keep the daylight coming. |
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About the Author: Dwaine Rieves is a pharmaceutical consultant from Smithville, MS. His book, When the Eye Forms, won the Tupelo Press Prize for Poetry. He can be reached here.
