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Category: Merrill Gilfillan

Sage in September

Sprigs for sunrise,

sprigs for Taos, and soldiers

on the steep blue sea.

The slopes of Taos,

true south, building, firing

to the aspen smoulder-golden—

sage for the cello in its breeze.

Sprigs for small things

rousted, on the run, Septembered.

Flocks of longspurs slipping down

the continent by night. Sage for them,

moving through the mesh

of the dangerous starlight.

from Bark of the DogFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © Merrill Gilfillan

Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Blue Ridge: Blossoms on the Feral Trees

Apple blossoms on the feral trees

have a light all their own, cool ivory

of petals already fallen. One mile,

maybe two, north from Beetree,

a hint of wind nudged through the gap,

the slightest sleight-of-hand. Two miles,

maybe three—stung ivory, coinage

of stars—new leaves on the beech sprouts

silken enough to swaddle a child.

from Red MavisFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © 2014 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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