Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Barbara Siegel Carlson

From the back the woman in a red coat
walking through Humboldt Square
where they burned so many books
looked like my first friend from childhood
who lived a few houses down, except for
her wrinkled neck.

We used to play by a burnt tree with
a crack at the heart of the wood,
all the rings to the darkened center.
Now we’re like waves rippling out,
faces of black snow.

Now our own shadows block
the view. Granite windows.
Stacks that don’t hold any books.
Where do the burnt words end
and the stones speak?

Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Siegel Carlson.