Sundays the white steepled hall where the
council meets becomes the cinema
shadows stutter on the blankest wall
behind the flag stand, thrown from a
clicking reel.

There I saw the Wizard of Oz
my first movie, how bright the colors
were, I remember mostly the field of poppies
as though I had never seen red before.

Our fields blink gold and black in summer
butterfly fields of whispering wings
and then there are grasses. I savor these colors
suck against my teeth to taste them
which is bitter, which is sweet
strands of grass with the feel of twine, from a
moist earth I know must taste of molasses.

In winter there is white and silence
an occasional tree, the barn, my house
their long dim shadows cast in blue.

The land is wrapped in linen so it will be
fresh to serve when the company comes in the thaw
of spring and the whispering begins.

Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine
Volume 3, Issue 2

This poem was published with the title “Color."