NaPoWriMo 4

The Wilting

Sometimes at night
I rise from bed
to look at my dark skin.
I make sure I can still see
my mother’s red clay
and my father’s kudzu
growing around
these roadside eyes,
a vista that fades
with each passing season.
The two noses I carry
come together as a hill
on a ruddy landscape.
In the soil of my flesh
once grew dogwood
and crepe myrtle—
the harvest of where I came.
How lucky I am
to witness this wilting,
night after night,
as field returns to field.


Anonymous said…
as much as you wanted to avoid writing b/w 11 & midnight, it sure is working.
It is! Another fine tribute to your folks. I did a tribute poem, too, via the guy from Writer's Digest on Facebook....
evie said…
Ananda said…
january, this was earthy and so touching.
January said…
Thanks for the kind words.

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