Poems from Savannah Roberson



Harvest

I plant seeds and I weave between the ghosts of

the field—those fatigued, war-torn echoes in the

clouds who press ice into the buds of the

rhododendrons and dress the moon in black.


I pull weeds and this is my harvest; this reaping

of my past selves one by one, those cold leaves

long decaying among the dust and the dirt

and the discarded roses from discarded lovers.


I lift the roots from the earth and I sew strings

of their sweet dark strength into my foggy lungs,

their seeds held tight between my teeth for the

fields my hands are yet to meet.


I water the sprouts and pour it slow and steady—

those sweetly ripe bundles wrapped in old death.

I let them heal and let myself feel what used to

be and what left long ago.


I plant seeds, and as for the ghosts of the field—

those shadowed whispers high in the willows or

hanging low from the eaves—my harvest spreads

fast and sweet and they fall silent at my feet.




Yellow

When we were young, we ran

through gold fields on strong

legs like foxes wild with the

morning sun. We washed our hair

of time and worry and we bathed

in warm promises of tomorrow.

We grew tall as the pines, our arms

strong as we reached for the

sun as if it were a small gold coin

to be cupped in our outstretched

hands. The days flowed like sand

through our fingers—we were

pendulums in perpetual sway. When

we were young, we ran through gold

fields, laughing like lightning,

clutching the sun in our hands

like a million yellow buttercups.




A Leaving Song

I.

Things didn’t go as planned. Pieces of us stuck

somewhere high up in the ice on the elms

and in the gray grass that crunched and sighed

that whole winter. I remember a hum in the

early morning like cotton in my ears, a numbness

in my fingers and on my tongue, like winter was

moving in and here to stay.


II.

At night, I hear an owl outside my window

who lives alone and drinks the night like

hope, or courage, or something sweeter

I have not yet tasted. He clutches the dark

close and grows silent in the light, and this

makes me want to ask him what he knows

of love.




About Savannah Roberson

Savannah is a sophomore English major and Appalachian Studies minor at Radford University where she enjoys playing music, reading, spending time with her family, friends, and her dog, Jake, and exploring as much of her beloved mountains as she can. She hopes to continue pursuing her writing, music, and adventuring.

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