By Jane Vincent Taylor
Before she saw Rothko’s colors before that late-life baptism
she was a parochial pagan bowing to a mediocrity of wheat
fields. Fine enough for a county-bound girl in Oklahoma gold
iridescent grain speaking seasons: combines, bales, harvest.
After she stood in the light of pure maroon the storied earth
let her be compass free fly directionless go non-narrated red
plowing clean through to communion before hallowing home.
Copyright 2019 Taylor