How generous the hand
sowing this sidewalk,
these slanted roofs, the Subaru
parked at the curb.
The gray bag of cloud stretched
overhead seems bottomless
as someone spreads another fistful
over eave and branch. Even my cap
and sleeves receive their share
during my morning walk—
everywhere glimmering
with the possibility of harvest.
Listen—
hear the far off
sharpening of sound,
the honing of sickle and blade.
A combine
of mittens and coats
gather in the mudroom
as the angels prepare to thresh
the pulse from my cheeks.
Copyright © 2022 by AJ Saur, from Of Bone and Pinion
(Murmuration Press)
Eighth Day Aches 