“Green Blades”

A poem by Lyde Longaker.

Words spring up

Like neon spikes

From fallow fields

Of endless rows that

Speak unheard

Who ploughed?

Who planted?

Who tended?

Who said reap?

When wind whispers

What do you hear?

Hear in the loft

Where baled harvests rest

There is more

Give voice to the fallow fields

Glean new verses

For the servant’s song is one of joy and faith

Lyde Longaker writes to live. She was born at home in Edgeworth, marauded Sewickley's Isaly’s ice cream parlor, was held captive in boarding school, and set free by Carnegie Tech (now Mellon). She now lives in Ashland, VA. She raised kids, stayed sane in theatre design, taught art, made pots, and now, thanks to The Pittsburgher, at age 89 she is a published poet.