Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays


The second spring since my birth bears down me
The grasses still parched brown and tan
Echoes of green peeking through the hay
I am beginning to find words to define the view
Of life after bleeding out the sea in a messy brine.

I am beginning to walk these trails in my sleep
The bodies dug out. Those needing aid taken,
Those needing air breathing, those needing
Forgetting forgotten. The scream provoked
Has dissipated into the same grasses paled

But awaiting their rains, and awaiting their warm
Blanket of spring air to wrap their proud blades
Strong like swords to cut through the days
Passed along the hike. I am seeing my second
Spring born and beginning to name things.

9 Responses to “Second”

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