Ice Scabs
The wind has a grip on the land.
Penny Eyes, the straw man on the field cross
has broken into a crooked smile,
his hands flutter like dying crow wings.
Trees whip the sky.
Blisters appear in the iced-over field furrows.
Under the wide rooted hedgerows
the white fingers of the yet to be seen,
dream of being green.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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