glow

 

there’s something about

glow that feels just right,

as if i’m hovering, too,

weightless and flickering like flame

 

candles, swaying lights,

an inviting courtyard,

all say rest to me

 

when the skies are soft

in their pajamas of pale blue

and smell like the book you just put down bedside,

removing your reading glasses

 

when shadows are just way markers

ushering me into warm spaces

adjusting my view light-ward

into the fold of your arms

 

and the post-ache glow of eden

where we’re stitched

into one another’s sides

 

the smooth fire of sunset behind us

resting on my shoulders

like the kiss of your palm

 

  

© 2025 jennifer wagner

what’s going on?

photo © jennifer wagner

confession

 

near the greenhouse

the hive was being smoked

 

soothing the bees

gorging themselves on honey

 

the garden pale as a powdered queen

in waning light

 

eve’s darkness growing

like ivy across the fence

 

the teeth of humidity bearing down

on us like childbirth

 

turning, i remember saying,

i don’t wear blue much, but—

 

noticing your sea-filled eyes

decided i could

 

just this once

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

shay’s word garden word list

 

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.

 

Fault, Lines

 

You understood

nothing

except the piece

of yourself

you tore out of us

and tossed at the fault line

beating like a heart.

 

I built this poem

around the jagged wound,

refired in the kiln of a sun

who heard my

silent bleeding

and wept aloud

for the breaking you had done.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics: Building from the Broken

 

The Last Emerald Summer

 

The last emerald summer

popped hot in the pan—

buttery, like sweet corn and tomatoes,

 

like the last sultry twilight

I spent waiting for your heart to choose.

 

Even when the first leaves fell,

my eyes were on the evergreens

still convinced it would never snow.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

Poetic Bloomings #547 Meant to Last