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She loved lilies, her cowboy,
a good laugh, and every shade of green—
lived many years without him,
now in bones beside him
with the river’s melody
beneath them both, serene.
March 20, the first buzz of spring—
Spring—like the trumpeting of lilies,
cherry blossoms, birthdays,
and new spring green, only lasts so long—
but like an Irish ballad, or an old Welsh song
sung from memory—
the missing her goes on,
evergreen.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
He survives on rats and pool water,
evades coyotes and heat,
and taunts our Siamese through the patio door.
He’s not quite John the Baptist,
eating locusts and wild honey,
but that fur looks like
it could have been nicked from a camel,
clumps dyed white and black.
And, he does have that dry, warning, desert-y voice, too—
calling out, Phoenix, get your shit together—
it’s about to rain fire. One Who is coming
is mightier than Spring.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
What’s Going On? Equinox: Signs of Spring
Therapy popped you out again
like a rotten vegetable in the garden—
the twelve years
I spent as your sponge,
and now, the boxes I’ve spent
too much time going through
while you sip matcha lattes
bought with the green money of my soul.
You insect,
still squiggly on the microscope slide—
but, as therapy goes,
I’m meant to look,
rummage through the ghost files,
craft taxonomy from crazy.
But, from the way I see it
now, buzz off—
you should be the one
in here.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner