by Matthew Miller
He has forgotten a blade. Bent and slow. The shadows of a white sunrise. His beard scratches the collar of his robe. Wet straw. Her hair isn't held back by her ears, it flows. Overwhelmed hands press an awestruck brow. Crumpled scraps. Sticky masses reach and hold in stringy wisps. Donkey skin. Let nothing bring dismay. Red and brown, muddy colored clothes. The baby lies entwined, like a budded vine. Tiny feet writhing on the rough wood.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine. His poetry can also be found at mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry