Wind only sounds when there is something
to sound against. What I meant
when I said in the thistle patch catching fireflies
there's no light without the dark. What did you mean
when you said there's still flight, the wind
sings through the canyon, through the valley,
the lightbug flies by day?
I say look at the edges,
at the mountain against the sky,
the frame of the gulch, the wind
rattling the frame. The noonday
firefly is just a fly. Look at my mouth.
Ben Schroeder is a poet from Wisconsin currently living in Madrid, Spain, where he works as an English teacher. His poetry has appeared in The Tower (formerly Ivory Tower), Bluepepper, and & Change. His reviews have appeared in The Wake and Great River Review. He can be found on Twitter at @bschroederpoet.