Two Things

 

 

She says she’s ready to go

and I know she means

two things at once.

 

I feel selfish for wanting her to mean

only one—

 

to stay with us a little longer

enjoying the hummingbird blanket I bought her

(she says it’s her favorite),

and the chocolates she loves

(at 95 I’ve introduced her to something new),

to hear her stories

of when she first moved to Phoenix

with her beloved, 71 years ago.

 

But bones are breaking in her spine

and cataracts and histoplasmosis

from the Ohio River Valley

make it so she can’t see much anymore.

 

She wants to go home

and Home.

 

Holding onto my hands

a little longer at the Rehab Center,

I hear a fluttering, a humming

I recognize as goodbye.

 

And so, this poem,

meant to explain, to show and not tell,

to show and to tell,

 

why I am a poet and not something else—

sits here between two things—

 

where else can I put

all the joy and pain

held in between

these brief but beautiful wings.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

NaPoWriMo Day 3

dVerse free verse

 

Mountain Music

 

 

When, not if, the trail leads me

to face the rocky Baboquivari

looming with the threat of jaguars and rattlesnakes,

 

at least it gives the promise

of Mexican Frankincense

in the burning Sonoran heat.

 

The taunt retreats,

and for a moment,

is a courting lover

 

blowing an arid, piney kiss

from a ribbon of birds whistling

in trees near the narrowing peak.

 

These are no mere trifles.  But welcome sugar. 

Welcome, sweet.  And though the bitter

may not be made quite golden, I’m thankful

 

God made it so that if the mountain doesn’t move,

and I’m going to have to climb that thing,

at least it sings.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Word Garden Word List

dVerse Poetics:  Personifying the Abstract

(life & challenges/trials)

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