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

More Poetry

Sound No 2

There are things I want to show you, like the empty pause that encircles desire. Or how Klimt knew that a woman bends her neck that far for a kiss only if she really wants it. I want to show you how quiet it gets when you’re in the company of someone who no longer loves you.

The Tundra at last

The Tundra at last
Resound my heart
Your music, the river
Your light, the stars
Your carpet, the lichen’s tender green

Bond “Girls”

BOND “GIRLS” PT. 1: LUCIA

Everyone loves older men and even older cities. But women
must be girls, and preferably girls from out of town. But
I’ve lived here my whole life. And when you died, I fell