Kimberly Vargas Agnese

Ash leaves rising

I do not need shoes to walk.

The Strawberry Moon whistles behind waves.

Sunflowers pull black bees.

Tides carry shells out to sea.

Sour Grass fades under a melon planting sun.

I do not have to count stems to plant corn and beans and squash.

I am a child whose legs glisten like ash leaves under a Harvest Moon.

I do not need to gather money to breathe into the cane of a flute,

nor do I need the songs of those who killed the ancestors

to dance.

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Published by Kimberly Vargas Agnese

My name is Kimberly Vargas Agnese, though I've previously written as Kae Bucher. I was born in the Florida Keys, but grew up in the Bay Area before migrating south to the San Joaquin Valley. As I ride barefoot around Fresno, I consider the paths I've chosen and the crossroads where our country seems to have perched itself. Thanks to my Romani ancestry, many people groups reside within me and my poetry tends to reflect this. I love welcoming the sunrise with my Native American flute. I've been rumored to juggle while teaching students how to write. And if you can't find me, I'm probably hanging out with Jesus listening to parables.

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