Brett Rutherford

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Poèmes

Brett Rutherford

After the Storm

Dead night. The wood resounds with cries. Abandoned child, I think. I rush into the thicket, find a path. My eye expands into the moonless dark. Wet from the rain-filled leaves upturned In my run, I find the source: On a mound where six markers neatly grew, A tree had crashed upon an infant’s grave.

Brett Rutherford

Seeds from My Garden

Back for a holiday, I visit My home, that old cottage, Conduct the new tenant over the grounds, Say, “Here are the onions, back From last year, I planted these. A little ground fire in spring Will weed through the blackberries, In summer they’ll go to eight feet. The sod here is cleared, for last summer I took shovel, planted peas, lettuce, Carrot, red radish. The sour kind Of clover grows here on the lawn, Boon to salads. Wild flowers, Good for a week in the house.” (By the wall, a garrulous stalk, Alien seed pods clumped in the sun,

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