Poetry by Jeff Burt
The camp children have taken to the hillside
like sheep, grazing in all directions.
My wife hears them sing, watches their hand motions,
devices to help the song sink into memory,
and while she thinks of dishes yet to dry
and the coffee yet to brew,
her hands lift, cupped in praise,
then wave to the left, make like an eel
swimming in water, then a dolphin
continually leaping, then the spread
to east and west, the three quick claps,
the splash of water to the face.
The irises have never looked so blue,
The yolk of eggs never quite this yellow,
children both far and intimately near,
sky a plain, pure blue, and cloudless.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He has a new book of poems, The Root Endures, out from Sheila-Na-Gig. Read more at www.jeff-burt.com.
