• andrew jeter

Into Your Hands

Updated: Apr 23


On our way out to the highway,

to pick up some things in town,

we cross over fields

that hold beans and corn

in the summer

but now are abandoned

battlefields littered with

cornstalk soldiers

memorializing past green

glory and wealth.


We pass a farmhouse

ringed by a hedge just budding out

and about which someone has hung

a festoon necklace of plastic, pastel-colored

eggs.


Past more fields, the road

crosses another at a ninety degree angle—

two long streaks through a

vast spring graveyard—

with stop signs.


In a field to my right, a lone crane

pecks for her dinner and my husband

says, “It is so desolate.”


In the distance, we can hear

the bells of St. Peter’s church, thin

in the cold air.


The crane lifts herself, rises from the

ground as if saying, “It is finished.”


But we both know it is not

finished,

not even close.

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