Original Poetry from O, The Oprah Magazine Readers
brush the sky
low and hurried
like a broom sweep.
Sleep is leaden, a dropped corpse.
Leaves verge on blushing.
Air is an impatient mother, barging and sighing through her day.
But is crouched and rustling in the cold slam of darkness.
I keep wearing sandals.
And the crickets chirp to winter, not yet.
Not just yet.
—Allison Dick, Toronto, Canada