Small field cushioned,
a cave between the woods.
Here I sit years ago; years
that seem sharp as blades
of grass, high as cedars.

Life filled with dark water,
lighter shades of red and green.

Still, I sit in that same spot
drinking from the shadows,
sunlight moves behind the trees,
the sound of birds who now
long dead remain inside my ears.

I hear them. I hear them still.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Dear Rachel,

(Yes, I'm still reading, though less often - no fault of your writing. I still love your work.)

I write a weekly column called I Wish I'd Written This, for a global poetry community called Poets United. poetryblogroll.blogspot.com May I use this poem some time soon? I would also refer people to your blog.

May I also steal a photo of you from the sidebar? And would you care to give me any biographical details or prefer to just leave it at what appears here?