I reach to send a poem her way,
who issues prayer like fledgling seed,

and pause on heaven’s shadow with
the one on sisters southerning,

who has herself reached up as far
as Spanish moss to blue hills can,

men-folk kicking dirt with boots,
while beads of condensate dew down,

ice cube stirred (not shaken) slow,
garden, spring hawk spiraling,

eyrie holding watchful eye,
loft to pattern opening.



(after “The Garden, Spring, The Hawk,”
Ellen Bryant Voigt, Shadow of Heaven.)




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