fear not, for we’re just poems—

 

 

rubbed together in a pocket,

rattling

 

smallish and fierce,

davidic—

 

or, too, like pieces of cloud

puffy-white against a blanket of oh-so-baby-tear-drop blue

 

or, a drip-draping of grayish snow,

just a tad cranky, only a touch ominous

 

or rising

like the sun, or a siren, yea high and heralding—

 

costa’s hummers and pink fairy dusters

and other such underestimated beautiful mayhem

 

 

© 2026 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse poetics: turn of phrase

 

photo © jennifer wagner

Loon Lake

 

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

 

dVerse Poetics

 

Hush

Claude Monet The Studio Boat (1876).  Public Domain image.

 

Hush, the lantern is burning low;

the air is crisp and sweet

on this, our orchard, son.

 

In the cradle of the river,

before your leaves are changing palette,

before my winter comes—

 

remember these: my velvet whisper,

and your dreams of green,

when my floating here is done.

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics