Blowing in a sand court,
I might have been wearing a tawny field
of dust, a carnival field,
the people waiting to be let in for the fireworks
in the yard where tents stood,
boiling water for grey porridge
on a hill of pines,
in the cold wood morning
I might have laid your pale coat across my lap
© 2018, Rachel Elion Baird
Offering up poems as a language of shared experience, Rachel Elion Baird’s poems are confessional and often visual; unfolding stories through descriptive imagery. For more of her work, visit http://rachelbairdart.com/words and follow her @rachelbaird1122
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