by Laurinda Lind
It is July and there is ice in the trees.
Not just from ash in the atmosphere
choking off the sun and not a whitely
nuclear winter, but huge hail that crashed
down through branches and where it
hasn’t broken them, illuminates as if
the wait is over so soon and the wrong
solstice has come with its balls and bells.
Inside each hard globe the long light
picks out a watching as of eyes,
a lying-in as if the limbs of embryos
lace themselves gracefully together
inside each cold shell, knowing full
well how soon in this season even
the most frozen of wombs will have
to set them free in the world as water
so they can run down, down to their
true deep home in the ground.
Laurinda Lind teaches and writes in the U.S. in New York State's North Country. This year she won the Keats-Shelley prize in adult poetry. Some acceptances/ publications have been in AERODROME, Amsterdam Quarterly, Anima, Antiphon, Antithesis Journal, Bindweed, Crannóg, Deep Water Literary Journal, Here Comes Everyone, moongarlic, Shooter, Soliloquies, Sonic Boom, Uneven Floor.
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'Glinda brings a Surprise'
'the spider's sacks'