Saint Augustine Grass, by Barbra Daniels

At the lip of salt water, a woman
steps through Saint Augustine grass.
She’s read that its roots grow easily
all along its prostrate stems.

In the North, trees strip off
their leaves. Silt muddies water.
Hearts grow severe and lonely.
It’s the wrong season

to praise death. The woman
opens a worn book. A point is
more beautiful than a circle,
Saint Augustine wrote, the circle

more lovely than a square.
I have learned to love you
late, he says of beauty.
The woman slips her feet

into warm water. A bubble
moves on a crab’s attentive face.
Slender stalks of sea lilies continue
to turn into shining stone.

Barbara Daniels’ chapbooks Black Sails and Quinn and Marie  are available from Casa de Cinco Hermanas and her book Rose Fever: Poems from WordTech Press. Her poetry has appeared in Mid-Atlantic Review, Solstice, The Literary Review and many other journals. She earned an MFA from Vermont College.

© 2013, Barbra Daniels