Author:Walker, Virginia
Position:POETRY - Poem

RITUAL A lone turkey struts on our back porch picking at droves of sunflower seed shells for we have been solacing the persistent birds all winter and now it is spring. The last frozen piles of plowed snow are shrunken, dirty reminders of cold. Through the window I can see a cluster of green fans, the ground vines are awake. I realize that this day of portent I believed once when young and obedient, especially the clock at three. I fasted in aspiration of the sacrifice. But I questioned always. Now the world is as miraculous, but pagan. I believe in the rise of green shoots from mould. I believe in the glory of my own existence. I know the absolutes of living mortal arid moral. A ritual of childhood compels me to dye ellipsoids, symbols of fertile life in beet...

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