A Day's Journey from Blueberry to Heron

 

 

Poetry can be like this—

blueberry stains on my fingers

from shoving them straight

from the bush to my mouth

—blackberries, too.

 

Seeing six rotting oranges

sitting underneath a tree—

hoping they smell good

to what crawls below.

 

The desert cottontail,

a perfect Russel Stover,

who froze still in the sun

when I stepped lightly by—

nothing but nose twitching.

 

A box full of free grapefruits

on the road

in front of the cottage house—

heavy, ripe, uneven.

 

The new puppy, dancing,

learning a leash, excited

to come to me—still unsure

which of us wanted to play more.

 

A Great Blue Heron

with long, delicate legs,

sleek and slow-hunting

at our green-gold pond.

 

I say our,

because it’s yours, too—

as is this journey-poem, for you to add

your own lovely thing to.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

“Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,

It is not far—

It never will be far.”

-Sara Teasdale

What's Going On?  Beauty

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

Lyric from the Land of My Dead Grandmothers

 

 

It was just a pinpoint of light,

a small hole punched in black—

 

but there they were—

the river voices

humming

like bees in wildflowers.

 

When the light grew,

I could see

them walking there, singing—

 

their limbs limber again,

these forebears—

naked, supple, strong,

who carried all of us

into the light.

 

They hollered over to me—

grandmothering

isn’t always a quiet affair—

 

Why, daughter, why

are you sitting in the dark?

 

These women who bore so many scars

marring their delicious skin,

harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—

 

the petals of poetry made from sorrow

and wings

where in dreamstate I weep.

 

Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—

I ran to them.  Ran.

As only in dreams you can.

 

Ears hungry

for their grandmother

songs again,

to write them,

to journey on—

 

making dark beauty

from my own scars

 

naked in the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

For dVerse Poetics and OLN

and What’s Going On?  The Dark