IT'S MONDAY MORNING,

mid-November, the world turned golden,
preserved in amber. I should be doing more
to save the planetóplant a tree, raise
a turbine, put solar panels on the roof
to grab the sun and bring it inside. Instead,
Iím sitting here scribbling, sitting on a wrought
iron chair, the air cold from last nightís frost,
the thin sunlight sinking into the ruined
Appalachians of my spine. I know itís all
about to fall apart; the signs are everywhere.
But on this blue morning, the air bristling
with crickets and birdsong, I do the only thing
I can: put one word in front of the other,
and see what happens when they rub up against
each other. It might become something
that will burst into flame.

~Barbara Crooker
index.php

poems online

books

events

new