Upon My 40th Spring

Upon my Fortieth Spring



It’s a long life.

Not fast and forceful.

Not a spring thunderstorm.

Instead it mostly snarls about,

A jumble of practical things,

A coil of too-long garden hose

Seeping drops into the dirt.


Mornings I lay in the field

And feed stories to the sky,

Try to coax back the things

No longer alive in me.

Things scurried off

Or scorched like corn in drought.

The things I could not save,

Could not nurture.

Things more delicate

Than the softest furled fern.

Those quiet, screaming things.



Carla Barger holds a Master of Fine Arts in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her poetry has appeared in several literary journals as well as two photography books titled Objet d’Art andMetal. She has also written for gallery catalogs and other art-related publications. She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Chicago.