Poem — Gregory O’Brien

Low cloud, field of peonies, Martinborough

Sleepless night
in your house

under the horizon—tiles
of an unfinished roof

sky of unfalling
leaves—you hold tightly

what you can: a farmer might lose
a paddock, a house disappear

down its staircase. This morning
knee-deep in fog, how it is

the peonies turn
their most avid reader

so suddenly
from their field.

Gregory O’Brien

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