The Poet (Blood From a Turnip)

The tip of the felt,

to capture a feeling in passing,

is bound to a page

in pursuit of its bind.

 

Here, the willows once plucked

are given new leaves

as their roots bear fruit

in a silent soil,

One

that puts their toil

to labor of a different kind.

One

where the mind

which tills the hand

spills blood into the field

that gave it turnips

and consumes the very thing

which gave its stomach

song.

-Amy Struthers

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