the home run birthday gift

summer that year was a beauty
dry and hot
we pulled our hair back in ponytails
licked popsicles
and sipped water
in between games
dandelions bloomed like promises
in the outfield

it was better than my first kiss
when i got it
less sloppy,
more dirty—
savored spent-breath,
sweaty, flush, and beaming—
the green gleaming

and i don’t remember 
anything else 
i got that scrap-
book year, except the spotlight 
of my cleats
leaving a dusty outline planted
like petals on home plate 

© 2025 jennifer wagner 

poetic bloomings
shay’s word garden word list
sunday whirl

Feline Equinox Prophet of Summer in Arizona

 

He survives on rats and pool water,

evades coyotes and heat,

and taunts our Siamese through the patio door.

 

He’s not quite John the Baptist,

eating locusts and wild honey,

but that fur looks like

it could have been nicked from a camel,

clumps dyed white and black.

 

And, he does have that dry, warning, desert-y voice, too—

calling out, Phoenix, get your shit together—

it’s about to rain fire.  One Who is coming

is mightier than Spring.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

What’s Going On?  Equinox:  Signs of Spring

 

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

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