Marching in the Mulberries
When you watched the wind
winding snow like a cocoon,
you said the angels chase the chaff
and the Lord goes before us,
marching through the mulberries.
Then the wind meant a landscape wasn't a still life,
that heather danced in colors,
and seed scattered another story.
If in a storm the wind culled live limbs and green fruit
for the weight they cost the tree,
brought the cold indoors and thickened
the winter coats of animals,
you said the wind released
the moan hidden in every body.
Tonight, mulberries stain your door posts
and remind me I haven't kept watch
like the purple apostles
sleeping in your overgrown garden.
On the ground is a honey locust pod
the wind shook lose. I suck out the honey
the way you showed me and release the seed.
* * *
Deborah Quigley Smith has published poems in Melic Review, Long Pond Review, Sequoya Review, and Poetry Miscellany, as well as other print and online journals. She has an English degree from Harding University and currently lives with her husband in Quigley's Castle, in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. In addition to poetry, Debbie writes international thrillers, one of which was recently selected as a semi-finalist for a national prize. She volunteers in the Community Writing Program, mentoring students on plot and character.