If grass could dream what I would dream
far between seasons of sense and memory,
we would dream of rusty scythes
swinging hard and sharpened often,
of women in rick-rack aprons
with blistered thumbs and arms
as big as oak branches, old
and strong, thick in their bark,
grinning around edges
of crooked teeth and proud
of fallen grass piles, crooked, too.
Sharon Bray of Orland publishes the Narramissic Notebook and is a member of the Salt Coast Sages poetry group.