Quiet Gifts

 

They were found

placed ever so neatly

on the stair.

 

A bit of dirt,

small twigs,

a crumpled leaf, in parts.

Evidence of

your last climb.

 

The last few hours

we’d hugged you,

pressed your paw,

fed you cookies,

gathered round

your bed.

 

How soundless

when pain leaves

the echoing room

with sunlight rising

and falling

 

on a

bit of dirt,

small twigs,

a crumpled leaf, in parts.

 

Small, quiet, final gifts

regretfully swept away

after parting.

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

For Sumana’s prompt at What’s Going On?  Aubade (traditional or modern)

 

For our beloved labrador, Druke, 2000-2016.

Ag

 

You were so small

when you showed me your hands

with your fingernails

painted silver.

 

How you smiled

so proudly

as I showed you

 

my toes

to match.

 

Little dream one, I know this—

your hands

are meant to write me,

 

my midnights

blue-dark

but ribboned with silver linings.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

This prompt at Poets and Storytellers United came at the perfect time.  I recently had this silver-themed dream and had been intending to write a poem about it.

The Dust Comes Out Like Stars

(Scratching Out This New Arizona Life)

 

In the air,

the scent of mesquite trees

and fry bread.

 

By the side of the road,

a dark head bobbing

above a collection

of turquoise and silver rings.

 

On my skin,

a touch of needling sun

like fresh stitching on a wound

too long held open.

 

Jesus healed with spit and dust.

 

A vermilion flycatcher,

like blood confetti

dripping from branch,

to branch,

to branch—

 

let’s me get closer

each time he sees us,

 

my hands full of mud.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner