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She loved lilies, her cowboy,
a good laugh, and every shade of green—
lived many years without him,
now in bones beside him
with the river’s melody
beneath them both, serene.
March 20, the first buzz of spring—
Spring—like the trumpeting of lilies,
cherry blossoms, birthdays,
and new spring green, only lasts so long—
but like an Irish ballad, or an old Welsh song
sung from memory—
the missing her goes on,
evergreen.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
It was just a pinpoint of light,
a small hole punched in black—
but there they were—
the river voices
humming
like bees in wildflowers.
When the light grew,
I could see
them walking there, singing—
their limbs limber again,
these forebears—
naked, supple, strong,
who carried all of us
into the light.
They hollered over to me—
grandmothering
isn’t always a quiet affair—
Why, daughter, why
are you sitting in the dark?
These women who bore so many scars
marring their delicious skin,
harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—
the petals of poetry made from sorrow
and wings
where in dreamstate I weep.
Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—
I ran to them. Ran.
As only in dreams you can.
Ears hungry
for their grandmother
songs again,
to write them,
to journey on—
making dark beauty
from my own scars
naked in the light.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
For dVerse Poetics and OLN