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

Winter Hummingbirds

 

The lantanas are mostly deep green now—

only just a few daring red buds.

My quail chime, in turquoise and copper,

is silent and still.

 

There is solitary dancing, though,

at the hummingbird feeder—

a dark, flittering joy

against pale clouds

and amber glints of sunlight.

 

The patio couch pillows

in desert hues

are beginning to pop bright

in the growing light—

 

a soft place to land

near my potted sun parasol—

blossomless now.  But I

remember them

 

from September

when the boys

brought it home to me

because you were gone.

 

Another hummingbird

pirouettes.

 

Now, in February,

you’re here.

And every day you drink me fully

with your eyes—a summer thirst

in winter, as if to make up

for autumn’s lost, lonely time.

 

And, I like this

all

just fine.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

What's Going On?  Landscapes

Poetic Bloomings: Out My Window