Reinante

Dust of wheat
when there was wheat
and on the hill, smoke—the pines

burning on their own
or set on fire.
Next to the burro, a goat,

next to the axe, a scythe.
In a town this small,
no one forgets.

The sunflowers know
what winter is—
frost on the lemons,

a burnt taste in the air.
You drink slowly
at night, alone.

The weight of the unsaid
unfurls a dark
lily in your heart.

Copyright © 2007 Jennifer Barber All rights reserved
from Rigging the Wind
Kore Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission