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the white fire of your indignation
crested in waves at my new-found feet
like teeth
i walked out
lonely as I came,
but happy as a clam, high tide—
cowries tinkling around my neck,
scales falling, hope
spilling cups of moonlight on the sand
© 2026 jennifer wagner
dVerse q: “dig” buried somewhere in a poem of exactly 44 words
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
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