A celebration of the plain
or the natural, however
full of emptiness
a thing might be.
The rusted hinge gone green,
marsh reeds bleached blond
in winter, the grayed feather and bone
of the hawk dead and plundered
on the highway’s edge.
Inching closer towards the human.
There. At a table in a quiet café,
a woman sits alone. Sometimes
she gazes at a spoon or doorknob so long
her mind must be elsewhere.
Or not. Perhaps the sheen
of industrial light on cheap metal
captivates. She wouldn’t be
the first. Either way, look at her, not
what she looks at. Notice
the face, no longer young, so stiff with thought
you cannot help but imagine pain,
and somewhere there is no doubt
pain. Yes, look at the face,
pinched a bit now, eyes squinted,
lips cracked, not what this muddied
world would call beautiful. Still
you know it is beautiful, as beautiful
as fire or flood, as beautiful as
a stopped heart, beautiful like all of us,
terrible, beautiful, so terribly beautiful.
Jo Angela Edwins has published poems in various journals and anthologies and has received awards from the South Carolina Academy of Authors and Poetry Super Highway. She is a Pushcart Prize and Bettering American Poetry nominee. Her chapbook Play was published in 2016 by Finishing Line Press. She lives in Florence, SC.