The three of us,
with the late afternoon sun
in our hair,
semi-stuck in the reeds,
using paddles to try to turn
that little pedal boat around,
our laughter
catching the ears of teen boys
who came to give us a push—
where did we each end up—
different places,
but still,
the three of us,
nudged by
wind, water, sun,
have memory
of the last golden glint
of rowing together
in a coming-of-age summer,
and the haunting song
of loons on the lake
here and gone.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
The last emerald summer
popped hot in the pan—
buttery, like sweet corn and tomatoes,
like the last sultry twilight
I spent waiting for your heart to choose.
Even when the first leaves fell,
my eyes were on the evergreens
still convinced it would never snow.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Poetic Bloomings #547 Meant to Last
The lantanas are mostly deep green now—
only just a few daring red buds.
My quail chime, in turquoise and copper,
is silent and still.
There is solitary dancing, though,
at the hummingbird feeder—
a dark, flittering joy
against pale clouds
and amber glints of sunlight.
The patio couch pillows
in desert hues
are beginning to pop bright
in the growing light—
a soft place to land
near my potted sun parasol—
blossomless now. But I
remember them
from September
when the boys
brought it home to me
because you were gone.
Another hummingbird
pirouettes.
Now, in February,
you’re here.
And every day you drink me fully
with your eyes—a summer thirst
in winter, as if to make up
for autumn’s lost, lonely time.
And, I like this
all
just fine.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner