Poem of the Month
Yarrow

By Susan Glickman

Published on May 1, 2013

Faded, bent, and obdurate
its yellowing lace deceptive
the delicacy of old ladies who survive their mates

to work on in the garden
season after season
with arthritic fingers

who know the names of all winged visitors
and can recognize their songs across the twilight
as the nicotiana releases its scent

who plant verbena, penstemon, lobelia and monarda
for the butterflies and birds
and David Austin roses for themselves

who do not deadhead the sunflowers
so the creatures will have something to eat
who keep cats, but never set mousetraps

who use their best china every day
and jump the queue at the grocery store
because they have so little in their baskets
and no more time to waste

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I prowled up and down the rows of the hospital bookstore with a fevered intensity; “fevered” because it was a hospital, “intensity” because I was perplexed by the mysteriously ruptured tendon in the middle finger of my right hand

Regain

Tonight it will rain on the green dunes of limestone.
Wine preserved until now in a dead man’s mouth
will awaken the realm of footbridges, displaced in a bell.
A human tongue will clang courage inside a helmet.

Yarrow

There’s the country somewhere outside the car.
The country where the elm fucks the maple
and the elm broods as if auditioning
for a new PBS miniseries.