Cindy Sams

You on your knees, whiskey on your breath, 

the moon a tangerine slice in the pre-dawn sky. 


Light waves from my side-porch beacon back-lit 

your hair, the ink-black strands swaying and stretching 

through my fingers like a dark flag about to unfurl. 


Sharecropper, you called me, because I rented my 

Tiny red shack on the lake, while you were on loan from 

the Big House next door. A tenant farmer and the landed 


lord: our crop a yield of uneven proportions tilled in the 

dark, on the sly, complicit with the nearby fish and waterfowl 

that flipped and flapped as quietly as they knew how.


Our work after hours went uninterrupted, the seamless sowing 

and reaping at the water’s edge impeded only by circumstance 

and the perils of time. 


Who says the illicit won’t grow well at night? 

Here, a cluster of Moon Flowers, second cousin to the Morning Glory. 

There, a pair of Four O’Clocks whose bright petals opened at the close 

of day, then sealed themselves shut as the sun awoke. 


An annual without promise of harvest, and you with no acreage 

to spare. 

Cindy Sams is a writer and teacher from Macon, GA. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Reinhardt University in Waleska, GA. She specializes in Creative Non-Fiction with a particular interest in place.