Oak Burl
A recent storm blew
a large oak limb
down on the trail.
Now I must step
over this limb, which
has a one-foot burl,
a great, warty wound,
scar of ancient oak wars,
covered, but not hidden.
I can reach halfway
around the trunk
that sacrificed this limb.
Standing at attention,
it can afford this loss
better than most.
Late October Soybeans
As I drive to the store,
the hairy pods dangle,
arthritic fingers
awaiting the reaper.
The once-golden field
brown and leafless,
the stalks stand
like a tangled hedgerow
of bones exhumed
from a mass grave,
and I check my list.
Sniper
The barred owl,
silent as a sniper
swiveling, watchful
in that sweet gum,
glides to the broken
cedar -- watchful,
swiveling --
lets me pass.
Eric A. Weil lives and teaches in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, on the
edge of the Great Dismal Swamp. Recent poems have appeared in The Hurricane
Review, Wild Goose Poetry Review, and New Verse News. He has two chapbooks:
A Horse at the Hirshhorn and Returning from Mars.
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