"Migration" (part 4 of 8)

I watched my father bend
to pick up grain
where the forest had been.
he straightened when a bird called
but couldn’t place its memory.

he sat down with a bottle
and painted colors on his brain,
but they were gone by morning.

he was left with sweat
in an empty field
drained by roads
that lead to cities.

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Every Friday for a total of 8 weeks I will post a section of a poem cycle called “Migration,” along with a painting of the same name. This week’s poetry selection is a reflection on the greatest migration in human history, the movement of individuals and communities from rural-agrarian to urban-industrial environments.

Please tune in every Friday to check out this work, and visit my painting website at www.scottezellgallery.com.

Scott Ezell

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight