passionflower

 

 

like winter sun warming the crisp outline

of evergreens on frost’s last kiss,

 

like an impression of stars

bursting in indigo nightframe,

 

like orion, swift-slaying, swaying

between boughs,

 

she is electric, blue-jazz summer sky,

ricocheting

 

with all the fierce beauty

of a flowering storm

 

 

© 2026 jennifer wagner

 

q44: flower

 

photo © jennifer wagner, from las noches de las luminarias, desert botanical garden, phoenix, az

john

he always had a smile for me

whenever I asked him

how he was—

 

he’d say, i’m alright, it’s the world

that’s all wrong

with that teasing glint in his eye

 

you’re right, john, sure—

but it was a little right, too—

knowing you

 

 

© 2026 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse q44: smile

 

In memory of my neighbor John (January 29, 1942 - September 2, 2024).

 

Mourning Dove in Milk and Pepper

 

Like dropped white petals

in the Colonel’s yard,

lie wing bones

and feathers—

 

cat, coyote, or

desert skunk,

having taste for only

head and trunk.

 

But, no hint of scent

of the last night spent—basting

in the coo that ended in a coup.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Quadrille

 

Prey

 

You were

fishing for me—

 

sliding your hand along

my dorsal and tail fins,

 

my dark olive hair,

my golden throat.

 

But you forgot

this bow

of sinew, cedar, and bone,

 

my Apache blood—

huntress, not game—

 

and this arrow which carries

your name.

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Q