by Amy L. Sargent 

I.
A few hours of brewing we swell
like noodles
steeped in broth, the celery
translucent.

II.
Small twigs of rosemary or thyme
grow too soft for bird nests,
or the arms of small scarecrows
and snowmen.

III.
Through steam,
grackles land on the roof
next door, eat stale morning-bread,
pick out the cranberries first,
fat red ticks.

 

 

Amy L. Sargent, a native of the Upper Ohio Valley, lives and writes in a dangerously lopsided house in Carnegie, Pennsylvania. A graduate of the Chatham University MFA program, she earns her keep as a community college English instructor. Her poetry has appeared in journals including Wheelhouse, Dos Passos Review and The Pinch.