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Elegy for Spring’s Midfwife

Elegy for Spring’s Midwife She was mad for dirt. Every November her calloused hands worked bone meal into small holes, placing corms just so. Wielding a sharp blade, she slashed apart clumps of daffodil bulbs. She whispered, Howdy, worms! Do your thing. Mud under her nails, smudges on her cheeks. Chill winds chapped her skin, whipped hair into her eyes. The ground under the knees of her threadbare jeans colder, harder every year. At last the soil clung to her like a vine, reclaiming her but not those perennial springtime blooms. (This is the first in a series of poems by Poetess SylvIa Vaughn which The Arachneed will be publishing in the coming days. ) _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Sylvia Riojas Vaughn is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has been selected as a Houston Poetry Fest Juried Poet three times.  She belongs to the Dallas Poets Community. Her work appears in Red … Read entire article »

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