September Hay by Christina Linsin

Rolls of hay lean into the hillside, peppery-sweet,
thick wheels, spiraling to rest in slumped shoulders of land;
bonfire weather dips hoverfly-close for a day or more,
September hay breathes in each morning’s creeping chill;
the sun’s arms don’t reach quite as far
as they did in August.

The hay isn’t very good, but it isn’t bad.
Deep amber butterweed flecks green prairie grasses
and milkweed. It isn’t very bad, anyway, the goats eat it well
all winter. On good days, the hillside smells like
linen and open skies. Rolls and rolls
follow the slant of the slopes, undulating as they
steam from the inside, slowly,
expanding and then deflating again,
slightly, before settling in for the rest of the fall.

A broken rooster, with one long feather,
like an arched, arthritic toe, pecks at the base of a roll;
egalitarian, his crow leaves out the cock and
only doodle doos. The hens do not seem
to notice the difference. They, too, are winter-fed
on the rolls and rolls of late-September hay.

Learn more about Christina on the Contributors page.

Looking for more to read? Check out the Largest List of Independent Publishers.

• Author
• Recent Posts

Christina Linsin

Christina Linsin is a poet and teacher living in western Virginia. Her poetry examines connections with the natural world, the complexities of mental illness, and the difficulty of creating meaningful connections amid life’s obstacles. Her work has been published in tiny wren lit, and she has work forthcoming in Stone Circle Review and Still: The Journal.

Latest posts by Christina Linsin (see all)

• September Hay by Christina Linsin - May 18, 2023