Resignation

The dry stubble of the field
wilts under the rain,
                    soft as jaw hair

under a hot towel. The summer
is a slim blade
   at winter’s throat.

We are all hoping for the season
to change, for something new

                          to emerge
from the small nicks
in our skin, undeterred

by the styptic rhythm of emails
and stand-up meetings.

Already the hard drop of blood
is separating

cleanly from skin, already
we have given up hope
                    of bleeding freely.

A wild turkey
lifts its reptile legs one
after the other

across last year’s crop,
                    carrying its dark body

to the trees
where it is indistinguishable
from the dead wood and stones.

Source: Poetry (June 2025)