A Woman In Season by Sharon Barba



The last gray crust of snow
breaks up like shadows, she

is loose in a delicate world.
Wanting to suck the

tender tips of twigs,
buds open on her tongue.

From the wet skin of trees
rain drips down on her;

wind ripples her like grass.
Bird song startles her

with echoes, the vibration
of creatures long contained.

She shivers like the ground
at the first thrust of stems.

Poem taken from The Smith No. 2, The last special issue, 1973

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