February - Poem 26

Yesterday Morning / Kristine Anderson

The sky unfolded
pink against arctic blue
as the sun made its way
from the horizon, upward;

in minutes, the snow glistened
after the overnight freeze,
trees as still as mannequins,
rooftops seeming soft

as fleece, sparkling
as if sprinkled with glitter.
Soon the sun would begin
the day’s melting:

snow clusters falling
from burdened holly leaves
and pine needles, cracking,
shattering on the ground.

But those early minutes, a simple
palette: pearl white of snow,
rich-brown boughs of trees,
and above, the splash of dawn.

Unfolded  / Barbara Audet

One silk scarf, peacock blue and emerald green, is folded
Neatly in the top dresser drawer.
Not yet worn by a soon to be previous self,
a woman who pre-daring
knows practical pearls and matched black suits.
She suspects there’s freedom in the folds, lying pressed in wait of assignation, more sultry than sinister.
Unbusinesslike, unexpected,
Untethered though angle regulated. This painted seascape lies in hiding for the perfect gust of a gale of independence.

Light / Bee Cordera

Sometimes we see you sometimes we don't the times we do, evolution, love imigination, co lor beauty, and all life's metaphors we need you for that inspiration. And we dont to know our inner selves.

ODE TO THE STOVE PIPE AND CREOSOTE / Ashby Logan Hill

At dawn I’d find the foxes lurking, smiling at my counting.
Herbaceum, perennial bloom that feasts in sky like translucent moon
or fire smoke in stove pipe fluming up and through the cedar.
Floorboards creak in the morning beneath our feet and the
felines ring their tails around our bare ankles dancing in the
morning naked with ash and dew, how slowly but surely
the sunlight climbs over butte-magic of morning, ember-glow
transfixed in galaxial transfiguration, a bowl of warm milk,
the magpies circling, a gaggle of geese swirling, and flock of
sparrows above the treeline murmuring.  You could see my
breath this morning on my brief-brisk walk out to the wood pile.
I wanted it to blend in with my soul of creosote-smoke, of my old
country home, white stucco and terracotta stone. And you, sweet
standing there waiting for me on front porch like flame, glowing.

Deference to Will  / Amy Marques

Knowledge was privilege; a gentle deference to will.

 Source Material: A Tale of Two Cities

BURP!  / Sonia Sophia Sura

That incredible sound is called a funny word. 
I wouldn’t call it that if
I were to name it myself…

My mom calls it Disgusting!
and rather tastefully, Rude!

When I do it, I feel proud! 
I must have done it when I was a baby, 
but it took 18 more years 
for me to burp regularly. 
My burps are a celebration, a release…
I call it an Achievement! 
and Did Ya Hear That?

When Max does it in my bedroom 
or in the kitchen, he does it so frequently 
and so LOUD, I announce, 
That Wasn’t Me! 

I Did That! Max shouts. 
And he sure is proud.