Sept 10, that year

Rachel Ann Russell

Had our prophets gone before?
Or were we not listening? That day
Did language crumple into sound, again,
From towers falling?

The night before that day,
I fell asleep angry.
I dreamed of a field of wheat,
Ripe and golden, rich with life.

I see that dream of wheat still,
Lush with promise, Silent.
Wheat, harvest, weeping prophets,
Broken, then, again

Rachel Ann Russell is working on a Masters at Wesley Theological Seminary, and in addition to poetry, is also a storyteller. Other recent publications are with Calla Press and Christian Courier.