Angela Taylor
Digging up Rhubarb
In early March, the rhubarb budded brains,
Splitting into green folds the pink stalk-limbs.
I splinter the root, a great woody thigh,
with my spade, shocked by its huge stubbornness.
I cannot uproot or hack out the whole
dark antecedent of our presence here.
It clamps the dark earth with its thirst where our
Christmas tree, dropping its needles, will grow.
Splitting into green folds the pink stalk-limbs.
I splinter the root, a great woody thigh,
with my spade, shocked by its huge stubbornness.
I cannot uproot or hack out the whole
dark antecedent of our presence here.
It clamps the dark earth with its thirst where our
Christmas tree, dropping its needles, will grow.
Page(s) 57
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