This entry is part 51 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11


With every pass, the old broom sheds
pieces of straw. Across the porch,
a covering of snow. Chop wood,
carry water, kindle fire.
Remember the charm that pulled
the town back from under
a river of bubbling porridge—
At the edge of the wood the girl
twirls in her skirt of feathers:
ruby-red, pomegranate-red,
calling out danger.

Luisa A. Igloria

In response to today’s entry at Moving Poems.

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