Foxgloves

Poem By Michael McGriff

The dreams of those buried in winter
push through the ground in summer.
Among the orders, my dead
belong to the ditches of county roads.
Before the Walkers came over
to negotiate the easement
with their version of a city lawyer,
my father hung dozens of foxgloves
above our door. A dead crow
hung by its feet from the same hook.
Even in death, that purple luster
is a kind of singing.
Dead Man's Bells. Witches' Gloves.

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