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

 

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