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)