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Furrows, a poem by Doris Lynch

by Doris Lynch

"The plowers plowed…they made long their furrows."   Psalm 129:3
Where will I sleep
in the furrows of death?

Will I find a dove willing to pillow
my cheek against its soft down?

If only the sun-patterned grasses
might curry my bare arms and legs.

This burrow, this shaped hummock,
will it provide a clear view of sky?

What of those clouds racing past--
are they too fleet for shrouds?

Where will I sleep
in the furrows of death?

What will I cling to? Root,
barnacle, rock face?

Piercing the hard soil,
will clods of earth block

my passage? Will my body find
its way? Find sanctuary, shelter?

Doris Lynch has work recently in the Tipton Poetry Review, the Atlanta Review, Frogpond,
Haibun Today, and Contemporary Haibun Online. The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist’s grants: two in poetry and one in fiction.