Three poems by Deborah Doolittle

Josephine Miles Discovers a Field with Fire Poppies

Where was the fire? All about,
the grass charred black
as a man’s hearth burns, dark as cinders.

Look in the forest or the woods,
in the field or chaparral,
and ask the spark what part it played

in all this pale profusion of fire
poppies, the eager outline of a meadow,
the art that yearns for something better.

In Other Words

Crows strut their
stuff along the margins
of the highways.

Our cars pass each
other like the two
proverbial ships at night.

Weekends, we slip
into that same rowboat
you dragged across the gravel.

The moon expands
and contracts in the waves
like a bellows.

Only the sheep
that leap the rail
get counted.

With Egrets

The air still smells
of summer, the wind
of the not so distant surf.

Herons divide the reeds
along the creek bank
where silvery fish hide.

At dusk, I gather
my own thoughts
like pollen and inhale.

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