Lynn Powers © 2006 All Rights Reserved
Wheatfield With Crows
I find myself returning to it,
Wielded into rows,
An intimate sorrow shunts
With each deliberate birth of slender spiking.
If my eye roams further up,
A violent crush of crows
Frozen into one black swing.
Was it sound or did color
Petition their wings into a levitating virtuoso?
The scene wonít alter with various perspectives,
A viewerís make is only a checkered take
On a fixed landscape,
So today I am lit
With a measure of vacancy: I let the landscape
Consume me, nourishing its stalks
With my arrival as I veil into the holster
Of an infrangible coldness, didnít I?
I couldnít tell the difference
Between the missionary and myself,
And those frozen birds beating loneliness
Out above the stalks,
What foreboding bolstered their trembling? What had dissolved
Inside a temporary dwelling?
This field now suffers under an immortal civilization.
A destination I can charter.
JENNIFER JUNEAUís work has appeared in California Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Cincinnati Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and other journals in the U.S. and abroad. The recipient of two prizes from the California State Poetry Society, she lives in Zurich, Switzerland.
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