Blowing in a sand court,

I might have been wearing a tawny field

of dust, a carnival field,

the people waiting to be let in for the fireworks

in the yard where tents stood,

boiling water for grey porridge

on a hill of pines,

in the cold wood morning

I might have laid your pale coat across my lap

© 2018, Rachel Elion Baird

Offering up poems as a language of shared experience, Rachel Elion Baird’s poems are confessional and often visual; unfolding stories through descriptive imagery.  For more of her work, visit  https://rachelbairdart.com/words and follow her @rachelbaird1122