Pulse

 

After the departure

 

of winter,

 

of cara caras—

 

the arrival of white blossoms,

pollen, dusk moths,

bats diving for seconds.

 

After the departure

of my dark-mute-crash

in your absence—

 

the arrival of sweet,

prickly pear cactus,

green-purpling in tangelo sun.

 

After the departure

of cold,

of hibernation—

 

the arrival of migration,

your ready arms cloaking

the naked-bleed of me.

 

After the departure

of bleak season,

waning spirit—

 

the arrival of glittering sky

beyond palm bones—

and my ribboned heart

 

stitched whole

in the pulse

of your hand.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden

Poetic Bloomings

Desert Stardate

On the First of March,

the desert doesn’t know

it’s not even spring yet.

Summer tosses dandelions

through a hole in the sky.

 

With my face upturned,

I let them pelt me

with soft, moist tongues—

pollen making eye shadow,

powdery blush,

a soft dusting of body glitter.

 

With a strike of your hand

on my hip like a match,

we become a collision of stars,

a kilonova,

exploding, burnt.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings

March Right In

March right in

with all your green finery,

shake snow dust

from your limbs, your hat.

Sit, I’ve made tea.

Not those tired kinds

you wrote you would have no more of—

as you say, it’s time for oolong.

I read your letter.  Again and again.  Especially

after the sun turned her lights down before

I’d even have a chance to start the day.

I know she needs her rest

before headlining,

but honestly, she can be such a diva.

4pm?  I feel faint.  Quick, I need my brandy and eye mask.

She’s been this way for months now.

Can you talk to her?  Ah, I see you already have,

and the day seems longer for it.

And those cherry trees and daffodils

are yellow, pink, and promising.

So I won’t complain to April—look here she comes—

or hold it against you,

when the gloomy wind blows

stinging rain against my cheek.

I, uh. . .

I promise.

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Dear March – Come In –.