Poetry Friday: Wind Shear by Janice N. Harrington

[slayground]

Under the magnolia, a winter-starved hare stills
and pretends it is not there,

and wanting less of fearfulness
I pretend that I do not see my camouflage, the wild promises
in my gaze, and step carefully by.

Morning, bitter morning-
lack and awful patience wait at every compass point.
Mourning, mournful, the prairie seals wind-scored stems with snow.

Here inside a stalk of goldenrod
a gall wasp will ride hard winter out.

Here between my ribs, wasps of lonely, wasps of
not yet, not yet wait and ride hard winter out.

Such a slow season, laggard and mean.
I can’t explain the cardinals I’ve seen of late,

but the crows’ black fists, the way they bully
eave and air, stab the morning with the sharpest awe,

I understand it now. I see the reason and agree.

- Wind Shear by Janice N. Harrington

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