the bird of her life she realized now
feeling déjà vu as she watched them
chirp their way through the cattail marsh
geese honking overhead. Overturning leaves
with their dark pointed beaks
their heads the iridescent blue of bottle flies
their under feathers fan out almost adorably
like a yellow Easter chick’s in the spring breeze—
and then fall flat again.
(first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar)
Under the Trees
Taking their four-wheel-drive vehicles
where even these should not have gone,
they stand outside on this winter
afternoon surprised by strong sunlight
warm as a summer breeze. Who among
us has not dreamed of living here,
just a little bit farther, under the trees?
The snow sieving through pines after
yesterday’s storm the finest of draperies,
and each new poem as sure as the now
stirring buds of oak and hickory leaves.
(first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar and in One of These Days, 2012, Bunchgrass Press)
I brought out extra blankets, then pajamas, and dreamed of
a meadow growing thick beyond a cliff, one step would make
it all collapse. I’d seen the photo of the ancient sandstone
Arch that broke. And now, today, red sumac leaves because
the night was cool.
(from Midwest Ritual Burning, 2012, Eyewear Publishing)
Morgan Harlow‘s poems, fiction and other writing have appeared in Washington Square, Seneca Review, The Tusculum Review, The Moth, and elsewhere. Her poetry collection, Midwest Ritual Burning, is published by Eyewear.