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The Sower
November 1984
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J I.:,. C. ,dr.,ir$S5 j !i . j I Winter pushes into my room. I waken
o i E5SEFi 'Uh ! And walk to the porch. Windows rattle Or I
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.(. : Mi ocS& w-'''?A(5lf& ' 1 I hold the windows still, watch the trees M,iV;
' I'' : ! I ! Struggle in the cold. Winter mists '
'" ' . 1? ' Mh j From my mouth. Invisible fire. ? ,
,' J; !Pra;;X ' ISO 1 Cold flattens asalnst our cheeks, faces us. N 1
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Cold flattens agilnst our cheeks, faces us,
Steals the warmth from the goblets
Cupped in our hands. The sun cannot
Sink Lnto the tops of our shoulders
We do not walk the field from end to end.
A name you hear makes you shiver;
TTie pages I am writing mark my days.
When I place my hand upon the glass,
The print released is no longer mine.
I do not want to be alone. Without amber.
Without the steam rising on a city street
Back in my room is a whirlpool of light
I leave thumbprint and palm, and the porch
Becomes ruins behind me.
Omaz Abi&sder
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Lit
lilt
Th e So wer
On a Sumnser Night
The fireflies floated i2p from the grass.
At the top of the yard, they signalled
to me. I swipe one from the air
and peeked through the cracks of my fingers
to watch its flicker.
I must spend each night alone with my morrors
around me: books, photographs, pillows
and an open space. I do not trust
myself in sleep; I will not drop off
into the leisure of a dream. I am the keeper
of this night and its silences.
We lay in the yard and watch the bats
swoop and scream. I could not believe
their blindness as they dove and punched
at the stars. I held my breathing
so they would not hear me.
Sometimes I sit at this wondow for hours
with a candle behind me in the room.
No bats pass through this sky. It has
no real darkness. And when I see a star,
I watch it disappear through my fingers.
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Ki.
Abinader
The Sower staff edit and produce this magazine,
in addition to their individual contributions.
Writers
Mona Z. Koppelman
Judi Nygren
Ann Lowe
Ward W. Tripiett III
Suzanne Teten
Jeff Browne
Photographers
Joel Sartore
David Creamer
Mark Davis
Typesetting
Katharine Policky
The Sower magazine is published by the UNL Publica
tions Board once each month, fall semester 1984.
Daily Nebraskan
Nebraska Union 34, 1400 R Street
Lincoln, Neb. 68588-0448
(402) 472-2588
Learning About Cottonwoods
Where the Pawnee eats away at the bank, a voice
calls from the back of the canoe. Carp sputter
in lines across the darkening lake. Seagulls somewhere
drele and screech. I pull the rope thrown to me.
Mud shifts and gives way to water, soaking
my shoes. Motors buzz beyond us.
The wind is low enough, he tells me. I follow
and lift my f jet high above the wet grass.
Mosquitos whir. Over there, he show me.
I see the cottonwood and its swirling leaves,
imprecise and flirtatious. Closer, I hear
small children whisper, twenty or thirty.
I listen again. His hand is wet and strong.
Efcs22 Abinader
Darlene Perry used to pray for ants
who were accidentally stepped on.
She held funerals for them
hoping no revenge would be planned
by the black crowd of comrades
in the sidewalk crack Often they
would come, to carry off their dead.
Yet Darlene would make her small mound
in honor, bearing a twig cross.
Darlene's mother lent her a black book
for eulogies. I would have no graves
in my yard. I even caught fireflies in jars
and sometimes never let them go.
There was blasphemy in praying for ants.
Hieir tiny bubble-bodies scavenged
every crumb before them. I tried
to make my at eat them, in front
of Darlene but he wouldn't So I ran
them over with my bike and felt no bumps
unaer my wneeis.
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