Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue One

Nancy Rampson

Weed Field

— for mother I remember one day in dust and the scream of cicada voices, I traipsed across the kitchen, tennis shoes full of dirt and bits of weed, clambered into your lap and you held me; voices too dry for words. Later, back in the field, I searched its boundaries for something new and growing. I placed a bunch of wildflowers in the big coffee can on the kitchen table, filled it deep with water, turned to go out and play.