Jennifer Cartland

Special Edition: June 2022

White rose in November blooming

As if you cannot wait for the snow,
as if you open wide now to remind us

to prepare for any kind of weather,
to carry our burdens lightly

so we too might dare to bloom
if given just half a chance.


Tiny voles nibble roots,
hollow out caverns, even upturn trees.
While the meadow —
arms open wide to sky, vast distance —
whispers softly the word love.

Off I-57 at night

I know now
that I have seen the curve
of Earth —
the slow breeze of the prairie
beckons round the other side.

Morning walk

This morning
I yearned to become
that yellow leaf
twirling down, catching an edge
of the sun spinning past.

Laundry day

I set my cloth
before your garden
and wait
for your breath to heave,
wash through the yard.

A thought in early spring

We are reckless, lost,
then forgiven,
by the earth covered on end
with unbounded buds
swelling on thawing branches.

Leave a Reply