Good in time

By: Anna Hillary

The legs of the table, the cherry in wait.

Bees wax sweet, houses high to rise. I’m not a branch, I

’m not a leaf, I’m not the root or the tree.

Red eyes, red cheeks, dark red sight, and

sound the day: I’m not always what I want to be. As

easy porcelain stands straight and whisker reaches out,

My juice drips down and heavy hand strips, wraps,

sinks, deep into the ground. Daughter, shy—

A torch spreading across my earth to burn.

Thick heart thins, sudden teeth in skin, oiled lungs

and wings fanning. To spill takes time, having

no longer to wait for good or bad, we lie against extremes.

The stagnant summer must stands still,

brings everything in between.

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Anna is an educator and emerging writer. She loves humid summers, snowy winters, and calls both Buenos Aires, 

Argentina and La Crosse, Wisconsin home.