Bald sycamores spear the sky,
their stark white, a cold vein
against the neck of day. Wind
knifes the river’s rind, scratching
summer’s old soliloquys — farewell,
farewell. Ripples hurry toward the bend
where autumn’s light and winter’s burden
collide. Sunlight squints open the cloud’s
lamina of silver gelatin. Briefly, warmth
tenders us all, wakes us to this fleeting
life. Briefly, we remember we’re not
the ones who tame this world.
This poem first appeared in Still: The Journal (2022).
—
Shei Sanchez writes from her farm outside Athens, Ohio. Her work appears in many fine places, including Orchards Poetry Journal, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Women of Appalachia Project’s Women Speak Volumes 7 to 9, Les Delices Music Meditations Project, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Light Enters the Grove. A Best of the Net nominee, Shei can be found teaching yoga, writing in the woods, or meandering in the meadow with her goats.
