Spring Break Up

 

Odilon Redon, Spring, circa 1910

 

Last night,

grief held my body

in deep soreness

underneath my roughened, toughened skin.

 

I lay awake, fearing to cry out

and uncork the bottle of my sorrows,

fearing the sound would

resemble new violin students

playing wretchedly and mercilessly,

and for too long.

 

Instead,

I listened for the birds,

like the chatter of children,

their rich, shattering joy

breaking silence with song.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse oln

fear not, for we’re just poems—

 

 

rubbed together in a pocket,

rattling

 

smallish and fierce,

davidic—

 

or, too, like pieces of cloud

puffy-white against a blanket of oh-so-baby-tear-drop blue

 

or, a drip-draping of grayish snow,

just a tad cranky, only a touch ominous

 

or rising

like the sun, or a siren, yea high and heralding—

 

costa’s hummers and pink fairy dusters

and other such underestimated beautiful mayhem

 

 

© 2026 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse poetics: turn of phrase

 

photo © jennifer wagner