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

Salter Street Strike

One with the strength of many
alone in the distant North End.
People before profit.

it’s a seemingly endless descent.
Marlyn’s streets do not resemble
one with the strength of many

morbid singularities
entirely unaware of
people before profit

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

The Major Verbs

The major verbs beset us in the midst of a static summer: