Chunter of the wood stove, perpetual

sound and motion of disintegration;


ash falls with small explosions, red

flowers before the grey and dusty end.


So many days we have not seen the sun,

and the sky moves sluggish and slow,


the flock thickens… This heavy soil slops

under water where boots splash, and if you


listen hard, you can hear it pop and sigh.

Birds sing regardless. Spring is coming.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

7 thoughts on “Groundwater”

  1. This poem is so likable, so likably crafted, from “red/flowers” to “pop and sigh.” Everything’s evocative, despite the gloomy, unchanging sky. Here’s what I wrote in my journal for the weather today: “It’s a pale gray day today. A nearly white and featureless sky.” At least the sky could break.

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