Tsi-Laan

Chelan, in Salish

it means “deep water.”

 

Innumerable pieces of our hearts

are folded there

into its blue waves.

 

They scallop toward us in dreams

reflecting the rugged green

of shoreline firs and pines,

 

little houses dotting the hillside,

boat slips bouncing near the shore.

 

The cabin cradled

in the hillside above it

echoes from the sound

of all we shared there,

our infant family

now grown large.

 

Memories, thick

as the blueberry pies

made from our fresh pick—

of our cooler filled

with sandwiches and apples,

our little open bow boat

filled with sunscreen

and laughter.

 

We lost sunglasses to Tsi-Laan—

t-shirts, frisbees, our hearts,

to the deep of it.

 

And those surrounding hills,

clothed in golden summer velvet

above the tree line,

get swallowed up in its crystal hue,

 

the way we always do—

the swell of memories

in a wake behind us,

 

floating on a dream.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

For Melissa’s prompt at dVerse using the artwork of Alma Thomas.  I used her Light Blue Nursery (1968) pictured above.

 

Fun facts:  Lake Chelan is the deepest lake in Washinton state, the third deepest in the US, and the 25-28^th deepest in the world (depending upon the source).  I’ve written about it a few times before.

 

Beached

 

I don’t like feeling

like I am a shadow of myself

standing just outside the light

in the doorway.

 

But I do,

looking in at the room,

at the made bed

with too much light

falling on it now.

 

I prefer the storm against the pane,

the wind breathing

through the hollow

places ‘neath the roof’s shingles

when it’s too dark outside to see the surf

but loud enough to know it’s there.

 

All that’s over now—

the salt washed from my skin

in the last enshrouding rain.

 

My shadow’s stuck. A ghost hovering

with no reverse

and the forward light stings

like sand whipping up

the cold November coast.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For What’s Going On?  Rain

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.