Cresting the Cascades (the Feathered Scent of Hope)

 

A thousand trees from sunset,

each with a hand held out our windows

 

cupping an apricot wind,

a warm pine breeze combs through our hair.

 

We curve, and twist,

take one last dip

 

before the fall of the sun

and the rising

 

of a champagne moon

bubbling up,

 

spilling the glass,

jealous of day’s light.

 

And just like that,

she’s cresting the berried branches,

 

nesting on the seat

between us,

 

that thing with feathers,

suddenly thirsty, opening wide,

 

suddenly bright.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

  

For The Word Garden Word List and

What’s Going On?  Fragrance

 

Hope is the thing with feathers – Emily Dickinson, of course.

 

unjumble

 

black-throated sparrow,

feed me with your light-seed

a tap-crack opening on the sill—

 

my prints smudge the glass

the ghosts of my lips, fingertips,

press the pane—

 

your bride’s pale blue eggs

in the scrub, your song

a tinkling bell, twittering dub—

 

sing, ace of spades, sing—

cut through the tie of my tongue

with your song—

live down your name

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

 

It’s April and that means poetry month once again!  This poem refers to writer’s block, which I am hoping to avoid since I am challenging myself to commit to posting more poetry this month.  I don’t know if I will be doing this as a daily practice, but we’ll see as my days allow.  And, since I love birds, I’m also challenging myself to include more of them, or an aspect of them, in these April poems. 

 

The black-throated sparrow is also referred to as a desert sparrow.  The black patch on its throat resembles the black spade on a playing card.  It has a delightful song despite its name. 

 

NaPoWriMo Day 1

 

Reemerging

Every autumn—

apples in a bowl on the table.

Every winter—oranges.

 

Fresh, like this morning’s sun

spilling over

hot air balloons

hanging like pendulums

 

the way hummingbirds hover

over the lantanas

tormenting the cat

watching from the back door.

 

Every spring—

white blossoms in the bowl of your hand.

Every summer—rosa pie.

 

And yesterdays,

scattered like pistachio shells

littering the ground

like stones thrown

at no one

 

into the dark garden

of memory—

where all our scars

are hidden,

 

like cicadas,

finally settled

under the twinkling of stars,

 

but

silent

only for a while.

 

 

© 2023 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Note: rosa pie is a reference to the artisan Rosa Pizza (red onion, Parmigiano Reggiano, rosemary, pistachios) at Pizzeria Bianco.