February - Poem 2
Winter Oaks / Kristine Anderson
hold onto brittle brown leaves,
frozen in snow, battered by nor’easters:
marcescence,
unwilling to let go.
Aspen, dogwood, alder
splash landscape in autumn, then
abscission—
shedding, separation, release.
April buds explode to flower and fruit,
ripen and return to the earth:
senescence,
elegance of aging.
The Shadow Knows / Barbara Audet
If Ogden the poet today were living,
About this Groundhog tradition,
he'd express much misgiving.
I suspect he'd be pondering how such a mere rodent,
Could annually offer weather advice many consider so potent?
Rather, I think Nash with humor would question,
how Phil, the dear woodchuck,
mastered climate projection.
Gauging winter's demise by plain shadow reckoning?
While outside his burrow, snow-weary humans are beckoning?
No llama lament now, poets put Punx to the test,
keeping score by thermometer or give it a rest.
For if winter braves on
despite shadow prognosis,
then it's high time to admit,
trusting groundhogs
makes no sense.
untitled / Bee Cordera
Like Roses / Ashby Logan Hill
Fingers holding all that’s left of glacial prairie, your way home
like roses, begonias, bamboo shoots, your walk to the flower market.
Last night, around six thirty, you skated on the ice like rain-song.
You stood leaning on the I beam in the center of the room
watching every member of the band laugh and dance.
You were like an ant in the middle of a bed of roses,
red as strawberries in summertime or the bits of blood
that dripped from your fingertips when pricked because in haste
the thorns remained at first for you primordial glimpse of beauty.
It was an unlearning like this that taught you something new.
And yet, like you, you hadn’t had the heart to name it you said.
And you still wanted the little drips like tie dyed silk ribbons.
Like roses, a cold winter’s breath, a silent song I said.
And afterwards still you and I left, the only ones singing.
Abundant Joy / Amy Marques
art
books & paper
account
for necessary giddiness.
Source material for erasure: A Tale of Two Cities, pg 140
Loss / Sonia Sophia Sura
When you
love something
you
couldn’t
bear
to
live
with out,
When you
lose something
you
couldn’t
bear
to
live
with out,
Enjoying the Silence of / Samuel Spencer
I remind myself
not every moment of this life
needs the accompaniment of a well-tailored
Spotify playlist – not every chore
needs chords; not every task
needs tunes.
Sometimes the best song is silence –
songs you cannot store, compile for later;
the songs of a moment you must endure.
Some of the biggest hits include:
Wind passing through leaves.
A distant train horn.
The boiling of a pot of coffee.
A splintering campfire.
Rain.
The mourning dove (work harder).
The mourning dove extended version (drink lager).
And let’s not forget about the lapping waves.
I, for one, pride myself on having
a more eclectic taste in silence.
I mean, not to brag, but I’ve been known to enjoy:
Tires on the interstate.
A dinner alone.
Cicadas.
The anticipation of diagnosis.
A summertime lawnmower.
The hum of a microwave.
The milliseconds thereafter “Do you love me?”
But what I love most of all
is the silence of a poem concluded.
That magnificent white space
devoid of words, yet which holds so much more
than you and I could ever contain,
contain,
contain,
contain,
contain,
con… (sorry, this one’s got a scratch).
