Eric Sutherland
Photo: Cristóbal Alvarado Minic
copperhead sleeps in cool shade
as I pluck blackberries
from thorny vines
and place them between my lips,
a dragonfly watches from my shoulder,
the sky is a mist of humid July air,
it droops heavy toward the ground
everywhere my eyes
gaze upon the horizon,
and though I toil
bent over,
barehanded to move soil,
drenched in an ocean of sweat,
I am as sure as my heart screams it
that this is proof of peace.
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