Dwelling Song

Photo by Stephanie Hanno Photography

A Poem by Danielle Page

Although you assure me never to fret, 

that the grass withers and shrivels and dies, 

that it will fade into infinity, 

I am stomping on the worn threshing floor

for grain to become bread from my own hand. 

You say I will shine like the blazing dawn, 

like a painful burst of light on the sea. 

But I only see flourishing clover 

bright and soft and lovely in the meadows 

of those you mock with a hearty bellow. 

How can I laugh with pollen on my lips? 

Yet, if I squint, I see the trail of smoke, 

a slow burn of justice rolling toward me.

Danielle Page is a truth-teller, writer, educator, and editor of the Clayjar Review. When she’s not reading up on composition theory, she’s scribbling in her moleskine journal or hiking a mountainous trail. Her work has appeared in Solid Food Press, The Amethyst Review, Ekstasis Magazine, and elsewhere.