Tuesday, October 11, 2005


More than the Sum

I’m not your usual bird-of-prey:
a squint into the sun, a flinch
from the unexpected flit
of dragonflies
and time.

I weep hope and home and joy.

I am grit
in the rattling red bed
of a dusty pickup truck.

I fling foible and folly,
practice sloth and bee.

The rusty square-headed nail,
the weathered grey board, the discarded
shard of violet glass – all extrude
from my skin, for I am
empty mine,
ghost town,
proud and silent mountain.

I want to remember four things:
aspen leaves shushing the wind,
the tangible voice of dry bone,
a baby’s milk-curdled breath,
the swell and dissolve of my body
lying like a sideways figure eight,
like the stretch of infinity.


Matt Getty said...

Lovely. "aspen leaves shushing the wind" is such a great line," as is "I am the grit." Hats off for being bold enough to break that one off at "grit." This will stay with me for some time.

Debbie said...

You have an amazing way with words, what a wonderful talent. I am honored to have read your work.

Sharon Hurlbut said...

Thank you, Matt! I loved writing this poem and seeing the pieces of myself come together.

Debbie: Thank you for taking the time to stop and read and comment! It's always great to meet someone new in the blogosphere.

bevjackson said...

this is truly a beaut, Sharon! I love the tone throughout--very, very excellent.

Sharon Hurlbut said...

Thanks Bev! It's good to see you. I hope the novel and other pursuits are going well.