So This Is the Valley of the Sun

 

They call it the desert.  A wasteland

with bones sticking up through the sand.

A plain, dry, yellowing

spreading epidemic-like for miles.

 

But the first thing you notice is you’re alive.

Palm fronds wave you in, smooth and gentle

like a Kenny G in the wind,

causing your upper lip to curl.

 

You smile, full, back to the sun,

forgetting that inner chill you’ve been

lugging along with your bad knee,

that ache in your neck, the pain in your lungs.

 

Late winter, a touch of spring, and citrus blossoms perfume the air.

You want to sip that pink sherbert sky,

tear off a piece and hold it to your lover’s lips for a taste,

letting it drip from your hands, and scoop some more.

 

You forget what you’ve been told

about harsh winters, about valleys

being metaphors for dark,

depressing no man’s lands.

 

You touch your fingers to your own lips,

like when you remember that kiss—

sweet as the agave growing here, soft as baja fairy dusters

blushing, flirty and brushing, smooth as aloe.

 

And that’s when you notice you found it—

that lost feeling of stretching yourself out

like a puppy on the lawn, or a cat in the triangle ray

slipping through the window—

 

seeing past the cholla

to the mighty saguaros

with their arms held high in praise—

and you know why.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

After Ted Kooser’s “So This Is Nebraska” poem for dVerse Poetics.  I’m hosting—come join us!

Located in the Sonoran Desert the “Valley of the Sun” has been the nickname for the greater Phoenix, Arizona area since the 1930’s.  The Sonoran Desert, also, is the only place saguaros grow.

 

Cresting the Cascades (the Feathered Scent of Hope)

 

A thousand trees from sunset,

each with a hand held out our windows

 

cupping an apricot wind,

a warm pine breeze combs through our hair.

 

We curve, and twist,

take one last dip

 

before the fall of the sun

and the rising

 

of a champagne moon

bubbling up,

 

spilling the glass,

jealous of day’s light.

 

And just like that,

she’s cresting the berried branches,

 

nesting on the seat

between us,

 

that thing with feathers,

suddenly thirsty, opening wide,

 

suddenly bright.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

  

For The Word Garden Word List and

What’s Going On?  Fragrance

 

Hope is the thing with feathers – Emily Dickinson, of course.

 

Turning White, 1888

 

They say one becomes euphoric

just before death.

 

It was January, but

the flowerboxes were filling

too quickly with snow.

 

And Mama, at home in her armchair,

can only grab her chest,

wring her hands,

 

fearing delivery

of her cherished child

in reverse,

 

with not a lick euphoric enough

to console the freezing of her heart.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For the amazing Shay’s Word Garden Word List:  Spill Simmer Falter Wither

 

I recently read, and took inspiration from, Ted Kooser’s book, The Blizzard Voices, which is a book of short poems based on the experiences of people living in the Great Plains during what’s known as the Children’s Blizzard of 1888.  Sadly, many children were lost trying to get home from school during the surprise storm.  My mom is from Nebraska and says they were taught about it as part of state history.  After reading about it, I dreamt of a school teacher who saved her pupils by sticking them together with Grey Poupon and marshmallows.  I can’t explain it; dreams are weird, but that is another poem. 

 

NPM Day 11

Reemerging

Every autumn—

apples in a bowl on the table.

Every winter—oranges.

 

Fresh, like this morning’s sun

spilling over

hot air balloons

hanging like pendulums

 

the way hummingbirds hover

over the lantanas

tormenting the cat

watching from the back door.

 

Every spring—

white blossoms in the bowl of your hand.

Every summer—rosa pie.

 

And yesterdays,

scattered like pistachio shells

littering the ground

like stones thrown

at no one

 

into the dark garden

of memory—

where all our scars

are hidden,

 

like cicadas,

finally settled

under the twinkling of stars,

 

but

silent

only for a while.

 

 

© 2023 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Note: rosa pie is a reference to the artisan Rosa Pizza (red onion, Parmigiano Reggiano, rosemary, pistachios) at Pizzeria Bianco.