Pinions

 

 

If not for

the twig-nest

of our twined fingers,

 

and the threefold cord

we’ve kept

to cup

 

in prayer

long midnights—

as hope has crashed

 

and risen—

and the bright blue shells

we’ve been given

 

last to hatch

unbroken by anything

but song—

 

if not but for

the soft-feathered provision

of Your constant love.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings:  write an “If not for (blank)” poem

Day 14

 

American Robins lay bright blue eggs, three to five per clutch, with four being the most common. 

This “American Robin” has had four in her “clutch.”  We’ve raised three to adulthood, with our fourth nearly there.  We’ve been through much—depression, addictions, overdose, losing loved ones to suicide, the long-term effects of PTSD/I, etc.  This list is not exhaustive.  It’s hard to be a parent, it’s hard to be a child—it’s hard to be a person—life can be filled with so much pain.  But there is so much beauty, too.  In part, that’s why I’m using birds in my poetry so much this month.  And for me, I could not have sustained any of it without the Master Brood-keeper.

“He will cover you with his pinions (feathers), and under his wings you will find refuge;” Psalm 91:4a

 

Green Apple Tattoo

 

Mom and Dad harvested the green apples

and then took down the tangled trees—

the apricot trees, too,

as they were dying.

 

But the lilacs still bloomed prettily

across the fence line

in our backyard

May to June.

 

In summer, Dad made a target

behind the garage

for me to work on my softball aim.

He always said I had

a good arm after that.

 

At Christmas, Luke gave me

a lilac blossom candle

(even his name means light-giving),

and baseball’s Spring Training is soon to start

here in the desert.

 

All this to say, if tattoos

came in scents, I’d get some.

Green apple, lilac,

old leather softball glove.

 

Little gifts lingering long upon my skin—

bright sparks of memory,

lit candles, shining always,

even in my dark.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Alone, But Not

 

There are no rules.

 

But there are,

aren’t there?

 

When nothing hurts worse

than breathing

in,

out,

in, out.

 

When my days are all

fogged-up

like the windows

of the pickup truck

I borrowed

to get to work

in the rain

 

when I decided I was going

to keep going.

 

To breathe

in,

out,

in, out.

 

And keep moving forward—

 

to pick up my son at daycare,

to make dinner,

and go to bed

 

saving my trips

to the abandoned churchyard

where I screamed

with only God listening

for later.

 

I know there are rules.

 

Remember

the magpies, the only things

in black and white,

where we searched

for the perfect fishing spot?

 

But it wasn’t perfect,

was it?

 

Fish were caught,

but every step was steep

on the way down,

on the way up.

One slip—

 

And now, how

we feel like fakes

 

after so many years

of victories

in our pockets,

or wearing them

like badges,

 

we’re shaken like game dice

held in a dixie cup

 

and rolled out,

in,

out,

in, out.

 

It’s a game of numbers,

they tell us,

and we keep moving forward,

 

as our old answers

seem puny

 

against this storm,

playing chicken

with the rules,

 

navigating

with no one listening

but God.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Late to Shay’s Word List Party at the Word Garden