Friday, January 25, 2013

The Day Begins With Women

A brave concourse of crows,
asseverating something,
and beyond a clotted mess
of branch and wire begins
the thaw of darkness; light
in the standing pools of the sky.

I would not begin to say
what raw, scraped arms might circle me,
what lips might brush my ears and
tell me this or that, take up maybe
the selfsame topic that so moves the corvidary:

but I know the day begins with women
heaving red earth
and hauling themselves out of quick-dug graves.
Their skin is painted with the clay of sleep,
but their eyes are licked clean:
they glow like flaws
in the glass of old windows catching the sun.


marly youmans said...

Oh, I like that business about burning like flaws in old glass!

kristen burkholder said...

WOW....this is an amazing poem. thanks for writing and sharing

Dale said...

Thanks Marly & Kristen! xo

Dale said...

I'm thinking I should cut the last line. Does it add?

Dale said...

"They are burning for me and I for them"

was the last line: I've cut it.