by Sarah J. Sloat

April, the buds unfurl minute fists;
dogwoods mottle the lawn
and the birds, all falsetto, spent
winter studying abandon.
Barefoot, I lean back in the grass.
An hour long now, everything
is almost as beautiful
as it is in books.

 

 

Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and after university lived in China, Kansas and Italy. For the last 16 years, she’s lived in Germany, where she’s an editor for a news agency. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in Third Coast, RHINO, Caffeine Destiny, Bateau and Front Porch, among other publications.