Poetry by Katy Santiff
The furrowed fields rest in winter reserve.
Dozens of nubs reach through the corn-stalk rows
like stubble on our grandfather’s chin, while
tobacco ghosts with nowhere to go
(and no one yet ready to let them in)
stoop in these old open barns in the snow,
tilting and lilting the bone-stilting wind.
You won’t be the last one that we know who
dies, we are told, when they work hard to make
we need is temperament enough to sow.
No. I think somewhere in fields there must be
millions of us, wound together like weeds,
flowering since it’s rained. There, we sustain.
About the Poet
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. A fan of meter and rhyme, she loves lines that hypnotize the reader with their sound. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves water-side living. She currently lives in Edgewater, Maryland with her wife. Her Works have been published by Vita Brevis and Spillwords Press.
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