i love the last stanza

Self Portrait as a Meadow

by Linda Norton

There is a chair

the heart of which

is wooden

split five ways

and grass pressed flat

where we kissed

where others later kissed

on the same mattress

and solemn nothing

happening under a canopy—

Have you forgotten me?

I will go down wonderfully

as was told in proverbs

though for a long time I thought

I should not go.

Here are things that have

no Latin names

or none

that men would know.

this kind of bird sleeps all day

There is a swift roosting

in the cavity of my chest.  

Every time you enter  

the room, he ruffs

his wings.

june poem

absolutely

The garden roses peak in quick

succession, each a different shade

of circus orange or absolutely

pink. And as one begins to bow,

I am left counting the green

buds left on the bush.

How long does anything last?

Always I have been grateful

for seasons change: the muted

shades of autumn after summer’s

fluorescence. Winter’s quiet

fields of swans and spring’s

quick revival of song—

but darling, already the rain

has mashed the peony’s

layered petals into a brown mitt

and the roses are parading

into summer. Over here,

I blush for you, again and again: 

it is this I am trying to hold on to.

The Extraordinary Occurrence of Words

There is a dream I have

where the mute child speaks.

It isn’t even as if she

has so much to say, but

just last night she was telling me

how her brother is not afraid

of bees and how her father

made her laugh by pretending

to eat her toes. Maybe it is

selfish for me to want words

from her when I already

have everything I need, but

last night I was delighted

to hear she wanted red pasta

over potatoes and green beans.