By Sarah Winter - Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 12 February 2016



Suddenly the face of the earth is pale, though all

the scenes remain the same. Along the hills

the dust still blind and white beside the furrow,

beside the trees my shade is blue and thin.

But yet the oak now dances as if it cannot

cease, its hiss and struggle now fatigued.

The music, though it plays, goes sharp. I feel,


I feel that I have said all this before,

like groves who quote the standard lines each spring

and every fall their tongues turn pale again

and drop into a stanza marked in soil.

It is not new: the dying no surprise.

The earth is tired of her refrain, the dying

and the waiting for another rebirth.