In the soft lull of twilight
a field of flaxseed is crushed
into golden oil, earths own mortar
and pestle, rolling flat beneath
the stony breeze. Indigo petal-
rings, worn on green-fingered stems,
are clipped at the first joint then tied
tight into shimmering grass knots.
The nighthawk’s bent wing, pinched
with a white band, cuts stalks
of air like a feathered scythe.
Even when all grows dark and still,
even when the tractor’s wheels
cease to leave their teeth marks
in the soil, natures endless harvest
will go on.
John Roth is a poet from Ohio whose work has mostly recently appeared, or is still forthcoming, in The Orange Room Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Bone Parade, Aberration Labyrinth, and Dead Snakes, among a few others. He encourages everyone to write because he believes in the power of words.