Before Bed by Mil Mijatovic
You’d never think to pay much attention
to grass. Yet, it is there, reaching
from the earth like earth’s fingers,
touching everything twice
as if earth were blind. Wyeth
paints shadows but no sun—light
is brightest on her back,
as her left hand grabs
for a clump of straw-like grass.
You’d never think to crawl
home. Yet, someone has to,
with calloused hands and loosened
threads. Hands are the almighty
if you know how to use
them correctly. Wrapped
in pink dirt, she drags the earth
along, inviting it to her home
a few fields away.
You’d never think to paint
a woman crawling to her house,
every hair on her head defined,
each blade of grass a different shade,
her shoes untied. Yet, she carries
the sun on her back so paint her
someone must. She, never lowering
her head, thinks of reading
by the fire before bed.
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