Poetry Porch: Poetry


Season without flowers or fruit
by Marge Piercy

This is the season when any color
a red wheelbarrow left near a tilled under
flower bed, a surveyor’s yellow plastic
ribbon, a blue doorsticks out

among the greys, the browns, the blacks
drawing the eye to it, magnetized.
Eyes and brain hunger for color
for light as the sun dims trapped

in the briars, behind the pines
at noon as if pulled low to earth
and half gone out. So in a grim
era of greed and useless war

one brave enough to speak truth
glints like fire in a barren field.

Copyright © 2007 by Marge Piercy.