By Kurt Baumeister

Published in the Summer ’16 issue of The Oddville Press:

Flown astride a church’s spire
A saffron rag clips the wind
Once a dress but now a banner
Once fell to earth but rose again
Once showing her, now slicing
Lower air, thick with birds
Circling, cutting the sky, whirling
Blades, a budding haze, memory
Still bears her pain, held high
Forces unseen, horses galloping,
Free to roam steppes of air,
The fires set, pitch made to flame,
Drum beat in the martial night
The rhythm like her dead heart
And still the dress like a flag

Click to access The-Oddville-Press-Summer-2016.pdf