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White
Who can hold the color of the moon,
a porcelain saucer of sweet cream?
The curse of skin at times translucent,
blue veins like gold coursing through quartz.
Pink and red meat glow through with promise.
Its tide of tumbling spindrift seeking
to dissolve all else, to consume even people
poking along in the sand.
Wading through snow carrying thick black books
with tiny type flowing through pages
like marauding ants snapping at the air
they spread through forests and plains,
a seething blizzard that demands
of all falling under, the pure flag of surrender.
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About the Author: Greg Field is a writer, artist, and musician living in Independence, Missouri with his wife, poet Maryfrances Wagner. His poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies to include New letters and Chiron Review. His new book, from Mammoth Press, is Black Heart, which focuses on his Native American heritage. He is a co-editor of the I-70 Review. His paintings are in private collections all over the country. He plays drums for the improvisational jazz band River Cow Orchestra.
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Image Credit: John Henry Twachtman “Snow” (public domain)
As It Ought To Be 