Daneen Wardrop

Issue 14 · Fall 2014


Panel of golds

Once in a while my ring,
cold, becomes colder,
a kind of comfort
for the length of a while

when sight turns  
limber as branches’     
hymn     hymn     hymn

Light jogs this branch.
Sun all afternoon, volume, 
flowers flaming
from the dirt.
A sulfur thread, the soonest 
war monument, trees trying 
to handle it themselves with green 
openings, slappings,            

manage it with a whiff 
of ash to idle through clouds. 
My ring is here.      
I can’t see my finger


Song panel

A person’s face shapes 
to singing, turns 
waves placid, easing 
to other waves, more placid.

Cold is a colder.
Oh hard times come again 
no more:
Let me keep them
outside my cabin door--     

A person’s face sings
and the back of her neck does 
too, strong neck muscles better 
than omens, and a fine hair blows 

across her mouth, following
the frail forms fainting
at the door.
She sings 
not for anything in particular 

except for what the voice metes 
out, not to reach her hand at more. 
I see in calico, see in grains 
the rosin on the bow,

see through it to notes’
intervals, hard times 
come again no more.
is it snowing? Squirrels know 

to feel sun in white-weight, 
colder than solace, 
snow as a steadfast. 
The deer are lifting