by Marjorie Thomsen
for Wendy DeGroat
a seedling pushing through ash is worlds away
from morning’s lawnmower, neighborhood turkey vulture
and its shock of magnificence above children
rapt with a small ball. Her lines bring a woman’s
hands to life: cayenne onto the chick peas. I ache
for the mundane but come evening, will try to woo
something celestial to my open and undraped window.
Deep-end blue napery on table, swaying wildflowers
in a funky-shaped vase. I swear I’ll make nectarine-cardamom
jam to sing into the deep bowl of morning. Before bed and dreams
without words, there’s the private act of serene ablutions—
lather of warm water and rose soap. Her poems.