 |
it’s as if you’ve been here
my whole life long
threading moonlight
through my veins
us—
blushing strawberry,
palm-damp,
the first long kiss of summer,
electric-sweet,
buzzsoft cricket symphony,
ostinato, silvery
smooth-ending
the longest day worth waiting for
© 2026 jennifer wagner
poetic bloomings 599: the first day of summer/the longest day of the year (summer solstice)
for ian
More river than ocean.
Not so much Tesla as diesel.
It’s more dirt and resilience
than computers and rain.
It’s a little like
the B-side cut on a 45,
not sounding much like the band
you know at all.
But like a fraternal twin,
you can see the resemblance
in certain light. And it is light—
named for the “Children of the Sun.”
It’s the birthplace of Father’s Day, 1910,
by a woman named Sonora Dodd.
And me.
Which now feels
like a prophecy
of where I am meant to be
as I write this poem,
from the Sonoran Desert,
in the Valley of the Sun,
just before Father’s Day.
It’s true what they say—
you can leave places,
but your heart never leaves home.
© 2026 Jennifer Wagner
Note: My birthplace, Spokane, WA, is on the “other side” of Washington state and is very different from rainy Seattle. Where I now live in Arizona suits me like a midsummer day.
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
I saw it sitting on an old pickup tire,
a butterfly
with sugar on its wings,
as we were wading
through weeds
up to our waists,
brushing our hands
on dandelions
turning our palms yellow,
breathing in sunshine,
climbing an abandoned tractor
in the field
to play—
maybe all afternoon,
maybe all summer.
It was gone
when we headed back
to watch Grandma feed the pigs,
and the dogs
lounging in the dirt
by the porch,
and to dunk our bread
into broth,
and bite into dark juicy plums.
And later,
I thought I saw it
from the window,
on the barn door
near where I had pulled off my boots
to climb a tree
and saw it watching me,
a butterfly
with sugar on my wings.
© 2024 Jennifer Wagner