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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Postscript(s)

The fall of ’47 I was 25 and still living in Viluta. What made me stay so long? What made me linger in that nothing place, that hamlet of ten houses?