Sunday, March 14, 2010
for five fresh eggs in winter,
one of them “wrinkled”
the farmer says, but still good.
She’s taking down the sign
by the road, her answer
“worried hens.” One dollar
for the eggshells’ hard
impressions, for the sudden
night of the coop’s daylight interior
and the white shepherd
sniffing my shoes, not
threatening but not friendly either.
For a dollar, six grubby geese
greet me in the drive
and circle back behind the barn
where, for free, a thick
white birch—split in two,
her torso, a flash of lightning
reclines in the dark arms of oaks.
The kind-faced proprietor
has no pitch, no ticking to rush
and thus break this
measure of commerce.
It’s a New Year. All umbrage
clears, all fractures will heal,
calmly, without pretense,
the way paint peels from a fence.
—Poem and Photographs by Elaine Sexton
Elaine Sexton is the author of two collections of poetry, Sleuth (2003), and Causeway (2008), both with New Issues (Western Michigan University). Her poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous journals including American Poetry Review, Art in America, ARTnews, Poetry, and Pleiades.